


Proschat

by Ranowa



Series: Proschat [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Dark, F/M, Maes Hughes Lives!, Psychological Torture, Roy's an angst bucket, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:16:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 89,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9541217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranowa/pseuds/Ranowa
Summary: (Title is in Russian, fic in English) After Mustang and his men are led into a trap, they must work together to survive a Drachman prison while their allies back home try to negotiate their release. Drachma, however, does not intend to let them go that easily.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-post from fanfiction. If you read it over there already, this posting is identical. Italics are Drachman, which I take from Russian. I don't know any Russian, so apologies for all mistakes. Translations are provided throughout the fic as needed.

  **Before**

**January 07, 1918**

" _Mustang rezhet porazitel'nuyu figuru, kak eto. Prosto dumay... nadelyayut yego kak i yego sestry, a takzhe on by veroyatno, poprobovat' k datirovat' sam."_

Fuery paused for a moment, brow furrowing as he deciphered the Drachman. Then he abruptly flushed, a very unmanly giggle bursting out before he was able to hide it, and Falman shared a highly amused, mischievous look with him.

Roy rubbed at the pulsing vein in his head and considered throwing his staff off the train.

"Firstly: quit gossiping in Drachman. Or if you must insist, at least gossip _better_. I heard my name in there, Falman."

Falman gave an unrepentant nod, smile not lessening even in the slightest, while Fuery at least had the grace to hide his smile behind his hand. Roy sighed.

Such disloyalty. Such mutiny.

"Secondly," he groaned, eye twitching, "Havoc: please stop encouraging the rest of the men to pick up your habits. First it was the smoking; now it's the gossiping. This is unacceptable."

Havoc huffed at him, sulking in his seat. "I fail to see how any of this is my fault." Then, sullenness became a sly smirk, and he tacked on as a smug afterthought, " _Honey._ "

His eyes glinted in amusement, and once again, Fuery had to muffle a giggle behind his hand.

And there it was again.

Disloyalty. Mutiny. _Cruelty._

Roy sighed through pursed lips again.

His men truly were brutal.

Shaking it off, Roy drew himself up straighter, puffing out his chest and tossing his hair over his shoulder in a decidedly preening like move, baring his teeth in his sweetest smile. "You all are just jealous of me," he announced, just quietly enough to not have the words be overheard by any nosy passengers. "Clearly, I'd make a gorgeous woman."

Hawkeye looked so incredibly pained it was as if he had stabbed her. She just looked at him for a moment, mouth slightly open, then shut her eyes as if the sight had deeply disturbed and folded her arms, refusing to look at any of them. "Sir," she muttered in a reprimand, shuddering.

"That's ma'am, to you."

She shuddered again.

Havoc snickered again behind his hand. "Oh, _Royza,_ dear," he chuckled, voice shaking with barely restrained laughter.

Falman said something else in Drachman, surely something obscene, given the way Fuery instantly turned bright pink, and Roy merely raised an eyebrow at him. He twirled a long strand of hair and gave him a flirtatious wink- and was thus wonderfully treated to the sight of his subordinates nearly suffocating as they struggled not to laugh. Or, in Fuery's case, cry in horror.

This mission was already off to a fantastic start, he decided.

" _Ma'am,"_ Hawkeye snapped through gritted teeth, her eyes still shut. "Please refrain from mentally scarring the troops." She cracked an eye open then, observing him dryly with not even a hint of a smile. "...You just _had_ to make a name for yourself, didn't you."

Roy sat back quietly, still smirking gleefully, and concluded that this really wasn't going to be such a bad time after all.

He and his staff were currently on their way north, trailing Rimsy Gorbachev. Also known as the man who had spent a little too much time lingering around the Fuhrer's office- signs now all pointed towards him being a Drachman spy. Now, the wisdom of his team being chosen for the mission was a little lost on him... the Flame Alchemist, in this blizzard? Not to mention, the Flame Alchemist that didn't speak Drachman? Certainly not one of Fuhrer Grumman's brighter ideas.

But, those objections were neither here nor there, at this point, because here they all were, bundled up on a train northwards and watching the border fly by past frosted glass. Their uniforms had been left behind in Briggs, due to necessity; for the duration of the mission, they'd be disguised as civilians. After all, Drachma was not about to grant permission for an Amestrian military expedition to cross its borders, not to retrieve a spy sent by their government in the first place.

Of course, going incognito was not the easiest task in the world, when he so happened to have been the face of the government revolution three years prior.

Which led to his current predicament.

Long, glossy black wig.

A woman's blouse.

And, _god..._

Makeup.

Roy scowled severely to himself. Not even _Riza_ wore makeup, but had that stopped anyone from insisting he needed to, to pull off the ruse? Hardly. In fact, they'd all been almost criminally gleeful about it all- save Riza, who'd taken one look at him and hadn't stopped glaring since, as if this had all been his idea.

He'd drawn the line at fake breasts.

Because, just, no.

(His mother and Grumman had both seemed rather disappointed at that. He'd nearly killed them both.)

Of course, that was probably the reason Grumman had given him this mission in the first place... the old coot had _always_ been looking for an excuse to shove him into a dress just so he wouldn't be without company with his proclivity for cross dressing.

Well, nothing to do but take it in stride...

If he was being entirely honest with himself, the cold bothered him more than the get up. Growing up with only a mother and seven sisters, and suffice it to say this was not the first time he'd had his face painted or stumbled around in a dress against his will. The cold was another matter entirely. He was the Flame Alchemist. He did not _do_ cold.

Roy sighed, hugging himself with a faint shiver, and shifted to glare out the window, watching the blinding snow flash by.

They crossed over the Drachman border with no upset, keeping to themselves in relative silence and trying not to attract attention. They still got a few stares, nevertheless; they were all plainly not Drachman, and Drachma was hardly a popular location for tourists- but overall, the people who gave them a second look eventually opted to mind their own business. All in all, things could not have gone better.

Until, well over an hour before the train reached its next destination, they started to slow down.

At first Roy thought he was imaging it, the white blur outside the window making it difficult to get his bearings- but when his team started shifting uncomfortably, too, coughing and frowning, and Riza, ever perceptive, stiffened almost immediately, he knew it was no mistake. They were slowing down.

One hard look at his team and any lingering traces of levity from before faded immediately. They all straightened, preparing for the worst. Slowing down out here could only mean they were about to be boarded- and the only people who could stop a train like this were the government.

Given that they were midway through smuggling themselves into the country, it wasn't hard to guess why the Drachmans were stopping this train.

"Remember," Roy muttered, voice as soft as it would go, "do not, under any circumstances, fight back. We can not afford to set off an international incident. If the worst happens, we retreat and make for the border."

His team all nodded silently, prepared to face the harsh Drachman wilderness without so much as flinching. Roy grimaced, clenching his jaw, and forced himself to hold still, ignoring the trepidation building as the train moved slower and slower through the icy wasteland.

At last, when it was almost to a stand still, rough Drachman crackled over the intercom system. When the message was finished, there was a round of uncertain mutters from around them, uneasiness radiating throughout the car, and Falman frowned before he translated, seeming vaguely unsettled.

"Seems they suspect a fugitive is on board. The military is coming to inspect everyone's papers, sir."

Roy tsked, biting his tongue. This wasn't good. How had Drachma already found out what train they were on? Moreover, how did they even know they were here at all? Gorbachev had thought he'd gotten away scott free. How did Drachma know they were here?

Cursing to himself, Roy held his silence, instead sinking stiffly back into his seat and folding his arms. The train at last careened to a screeching stop, leaving them all trapped as sitting ducks, and only a few seconds later, he heard the slam and creak of metal as the Drachman soldiers boarded the train up ahead.

Subtly, his team shifted back into their original positions, Havoc dropping an arm casually around Hawkeye's shoulders while Breda sat next to him, interlacing their fingers. Painfully awkward, perhaps, but it was their cover- two married couples and their two friends. A family would attract less suspicion than six seemingly unconnected individuals. Roy leaned back again in his seat, trying to maintain a calm facade as he listened intently for the sounds of the Drachman soldiers moving throughout the train car up ahead.

It didn't take long for the soldiers to reach their section, clanging through the metal door without hesitation or finesse and marching into the train car reeking confidence. There were five of them, all buried under the thick furs of the Drachman military uniform and still brushing thick trails of snow off their shoulders as they walked throughout the car, stopping at each compartment to inspect passports. His eyes lingered on the one in the lead; a pale, dark-haired brute of a man, one meaty hand waving his men forward, the other one glinting in the north's special automail. He dragged his left leg in a gimp, stumping down the corridor with a in a rolling sort of gait that was surely a consequence from the pseudo-war that had been brewing along the border for centuries.

He looked like a right bastard, through and through.

He also looked dangerous.

Roy had not truly _needed_ his gloves in quite a while; had committed an array to make a spark to memory long ago so he could accomplish flames entirely through clap alchemy- but it didn't change the fact that in that moment, he would feel much, much more at ease with his gloves on.

They waited for the Drachmans to reach them, watching as they moved on throughout the train without incident. When the soldiers reached them, Falman handed over their falsified papers without a word- and Roy, along with each of his staff, tensed in preparation to run.

The soldiers looked over each passport, glancing up to check physical descriptions and comparing their given names to their passenger list while their dangerous leader just stood back, arms folded, eyes narrow and expression implacable. The man just stared at them with the cool, unreadable stare of a military officer, examining them all in a gaze that left the hairs on the back of his neck standing up and hands fidgeting with the urge to snap. Damn it, they knew... they had to know...

The soldiers checked the names off one by one without pause or suspicion- even when they reached him. They just glanced at his passport, glanced at him, and then checked something off on the list. A moment later, one muttered something in Drachman, and their leader grunted quietly, nodding- Roy's pocketed hand squirmed urgently into his glove, Riza stiffened slightly, hand curling over her holster underneath her heavy coat; one by one his team all shifted under the oncoming threat, preparing to sprint-

The soldiers turned and walked away, moving on to the next compartment.

...What?

Numb with disbelief, Roy barely stopped himself from twisting to stare after them. He blinked, slowly raising his eyes to look at his team, who all looked just as takenaback as him.

After another moment of uncertain shock, Roy very slightly tilted his head in a shake, telling them all to stay calm, stay silent, and above all else, stay put.

They did as ordered. But not a single one relaxed, and Roy, for his part, could not blame him.

His glove stayed on for the rest of the ride.

* * *

"What the _hell_ was that?!"

Roy sighed, leaning back against the newly shut door to their seedy hotel room and folding his arms, narrowing his eyes at the outburst that had been building every since they'd gotten past the Drachmans. "Havoc-"

"They had to have recognized us!" Breda nearly ranted, tossing his small bag at the wall to collide with the plaster with a muted _whump,_ the captain pacing around the room in a nervous work off of tension. "There's no way- come on, Royza Christmas is a _terrible_ disguise. You look like a fucking idiot! There's no _way_ that fooled them!"

"...And, thank you for that," he muttered, eye and gloved fingers twitching.

"Men," Hawkeye announced sternly, raising a hand to stop them before this dissolved and fell apart even further. She didn't say anything else, but that was all she needed to say, and, sighing in relief, Roy proceeded forward to sit on the edge of one of the beds, massaging his temples with one gloved hand.

Sighing heavily, he straightened his shoulders, drawing himself up to sit a little more erectly and reclaim control. While he waited for his men to calm down a little, he yanked the irritating wig off and ran a hand through his mussed hair, scowling as dangerously as he could to discourage any comments.

It only worked halfway, because while Fuery was definitely cowed, Falman had probably never even cared one way or the other, and Breda was still too distracted by what had happened on the train to pay him much mind, Havoc raised an eyebrow with a smirk. "Thought you were supposed to wear that disguise for the whole mission, sir-"

Havoc was promptly interrupted when the thrown wig hit him in the face.

The moment he lifted it off, the thing dangling by a few strands of fake hair from clenched fingers and held it at arm's length, looking vaguely disgusted by it, Roy snapped.

" _Men,"_ Hawkeye sighed again, looking increasingly pained. She rose to her feet as Havoc yelped and dropped the flaming monstrosity to the floor, reeling back, and calmly stomped the tiny blaze out. "I realize you all tend to lose your sanity even at the best of times, but we have a bit of a situation here."

Roy grimaced, his irritated smirk fading. She was right. "Agreed," he announced, sitting up straight again. "As rudely as Captain Breda proclaimed it- he was right, earlier. I sincerely doubt our passports were good enough to hold up under any serious investigation, nor do I buy that this random inspection of our train was just a coincidence. It has to be related to us."

Falman dropped on to the opposite bed, interlacing his fingers and leaning forward, position tense and contemplative. "But how did they know we were here? Not even which train we were on, sir- how did they know we were here at all? Gorbachev thought he escaped Amestris without a tail. In fact, he very nearly did. How does Drachma know we're here at all?"

Roy grimaced again. "I don't know. ...And I don't know why they let us go, either."

After all, Drachma had nothing to gain and everything to lose, by letting them into their country like this. At this point, their goal wasn't even to prevent Gorbachev from passing on any classified information he'd stolen to his government; that had likely already happened- they were simply trying to grab him to learn what the information was and his methods, to be better prepared to guard against future attempts. Why on earth would Drachma ever risk letting them succeed?

"Maybe they weren't aware you were going to be leading the expedition, sir?" Havoc tried after several moments, sufficiently recovered from flaming-wig-to-the-face. He sat next to Falman, fingering an unlit cigarette. "They might've decided they wouldn't be able to beat you and are waiting to ambush us later."

Roy sighed heavily through his nose, unconvinced. "Maybe," he hedged reluctantly. It was a nice ego trip, to think his mere presence could've scared off a whole squad of armed Drachman soldiers on their home turf... but, he still sincerely doubted it. And Havoc didn't sound too sure of himself, either.

"We should contact Briggs, sir." Hawkeye cleared her throat, glancing around at the rest of the men. "General Armstrong is used to dealing with the Drachmans. She may see some sort of explanation that we're missing. Besides, she'll want to know the status of our mission."

" _General Armstrong_ ," he huffed, glaring severely. "Yeah, advice; in between mocking me and unsubtle hints that I'll be six feet under before I ever make Fuhrer before her. No, thanks."

"Sir, that really has no bearing on this mission, or asking for her advice. "

Damn. Why must his adjutant be so obstinately logical? Still, Roy shook his head, but he did at least consider the idea first this time. "No," he muttered at length. "I don't think this is worth calling her over- not to mention it's going to be difficult to contact Amestris at this point. The risk isn't worth it right now."

Hawkeye gave him a reluctant look, plainly just as unsettled by recent events as them all, and Roy sighed again, trying to appear more at ease than he really felt. Looking distressed would only serve to further distress his men; he put on a brave face and cleared his throat, hoping to restore some sense of normalcy. "At this point, our only option is to proceed as planned. I want us all to be extremely careful, though. Keep an eye out for anyone tailing us, especially that one with the automail. I really don't like the looks of him. But, overall, don't forget that we're still here to grab their spy and get back to Amestris- that's all. If we are careful, then there's no reason not to succeed. Clear?"

As one, his staff all responded with a cheerless _yes, sir_ , and Roy sat back slightly, nodding. Good. Order restored.

"Who knows," Fuery piped up after a moment, smiling weakly as if he didn't even really believe what he was saying. "Maybe the Drachmans really were looking for a fugitive on the train and have no idea about us. We could all be overreacting!"

Roy sighed, unable to help a small smile. That was Fuery, all right. An optimist to his core. Not that he childishly believed himself anymore; that had been knocked out of him when he'd been to the southern front and brewing civil war- but he still tried, not to put himself at ease anymore, but to help the rest of them. That was definitely Fuery, all right.

Of course, if Fuery was going to be a hopeless optimist, then he couldn't really help himself from being a hopeless pessimist, now, could he? "After everything you've seen under my command, Lieutenant," he rebuked softly, raising a finger, "you should know that if something seems too good to be true?"

Fuery sighed, his smile fading. "It probably is, sir," he admitted reluctantly, and glanced nervously out their frosted over window.

Roy followed his gaze, unable to shake the nagging feeling that somewhere out in the snow, a team of Drachman soldiers were looking through it as well, watching them quietly, and waiting for their next move.

* * *

**After**

**February 11th, 1918**

In the cold, northern winters, the sun fell early, and rose late. There were perhaps only two or three hours of sunlight during the coldest months, and even now, as they slowly continued to dig themselves out of the snow and ice in a stumbling trot towards spring, Jean's estimate was only three and a half hours of weak winter light each day before darkness fell again.

But as the newest unwilling residents of this freezing Drachman prison, he still wasn't sure yet which was worse.

The sun, blinding them all as it reflected off the blanket of freezing snow that clung to every surface like tar, or the darkness, hiding the guards- and other prisoners- to leave him unable to dodge or block the next blow.

And there was always a next blow.

It was dark now, and had been for many hours. The daylight's status had no affect on the guards pacing around them, of course, forcing them to continue out the waste of time ditch digging this work camp seemed to sustain itself off of, each bearing rifles that they were only too eager to use. Even now, in the blackness of the night, there was no respite, and there'd not come one until they were so beaten and tired it'd be suicide to stay out here and freeze any longer.

It was so dark, however, that Jean could not even see the guards- even though he knew beyond all shadow of a doubt that they were there. Hell, he could barely see his own hand in front of his face, or his breath misting in the air. He could feel Breda on his left, though...

And if Fuery was doing right, he'd be out of sight even if the sun were out.

The harsh, metallic clanging of a bell clattered out over the freezing night, finally bringing an end to twelve straight hours of manual labor of shoveling snow and digging pointless ditches. He sighed, letting his shovel drop from shaking, numb hands and drawing closer to his comrade, sucking on one of the blisters on his thumb. Thank god. His back screamed with the effort of standing up and for a moment he just stood there and shivered, too relieved by the long-awaited end to the work day to focus on their mission.

Breda joined him casually by his side, jostling him forward and ending any such musings, and the two of them began to follow the disgruntled crowd as if nothing was the matter. Jean waited anxiously, his calm exterior offset by his pounding heart as he sucked more viciously on his thumb. _Come on, kid, make it..._

Only six seconds after the crowd had started moving, he felt something small and shaking worm in between him and Breda, panting heavily but falling into step with them as if he'd been there all along, and Jean grinned.

_Nice job, Fuery,_ he thought, flashing a grin down at him down in the darkness.

He and Breda both wrapped an arm around his shoulders, squeezing in as close as they could get to share warmth. They continued to follow the crowd of Drachmans, Jean doing his best to ignore the grumbling around him in the unfamiliar tongue and just hoping it wasn't about him.

When they finally stumbled into the mess hall, the metal building not even close to warmer but at least it was well lit, Breda gave his two companions another meaningful look to remain silent and led the way. It was key that they not attract attention. As the only Amestrians here, and god, it was painfully obvious that was they were, each and every one of them standing out from the crowd, but they still tried to blend in, hugging themselves in their thin clothes and shivering as they slunk around the crowd. They did their best to collect their meager rations as unobtrusively as possible and draw back away from the crowd reclusively, finding themselves a spot where they could whisper without being overheard.

They still waited for a few moments then, ensuring none of the other prisoners, and, most importantly, those god dammed guards, were anywhere close to within earshot.

Then, and only then, did Breda nod to give Fuery permission to speak.

The young lieutenant sat up a little straighter in his seat, eyes bright and eager to pass on what he'd found out about their missing comrades even as he tried to cover it up. "Bishop is here, too," he whispered, casually leaning his chin against his hand, the gesture hiding both the fact that he was speaking and the edges of a massive bruise on one cheek. "They said why he wasn't with us, but I... I didn't know the word they used, I'm sorry." He looked away shamefacedly for a moment, obviously guilty, but recovered himself before Jean had the chance to chide him to get on with it. They were very limited on time here.

"Sounded like they were just treating his arm, though," Fuery passed on quietly, his brow furrowed as he struggled to remember what had been said. "But from the words they used, he's definitely alive."

Jean barely stopped himself from sagging with relief, and, next to him, Breda released a tense sigh, the white-knuckled grip on the table finally relaxing. Good... good.

He was okay.

Which just left...

"And what about..." Breda queried, his voice low. He didn't spell out who he was talking about- but, then, he didn't have to, because at those low, desperately hopeful words, Fuery's eyes went even brighter than before, and a stubbornly proud grin took form.

"Everything else I overheard was about King, sir."

Jean couldn't help but bite his lip anxiously, even as he continued to wolf down everything in front of him. "And? W-what about him?" he whispered back.

The last time they'd seen him...

Facedown in a snowdrift, getting the stuffing knocked out of his head, and on the verge of passing out.

Quite simply, the last time they'd seen him had not been good.

And that had been three days ago.

Jean knew he wasn't the only one starting to fear the worst.

Fuery, however, cracked yet another very tiny grin, and no matter how hard he tried to hide it his relief radiating from him so intensely it was palpable. "Here and alive," he whispered.

Jean exhaled heavily, barely stopping himself from dropping his face into his hand. Next to him, Breda froze for a second, closing his eyes tightly. It took him several moments to shake himself and put on an unaffected facade as naturally as a second skin, but his eyes were bright for the first time all day.

"Course he is," Jean mumbled after several moments, though he was pretty sure he was failing magnificently at sounding unaffected. "Mustang could thrash these idiots in his sleep. Course he's fine."

As if they hadn't all been scared out of their minds otherwise.

Breda shot him a vaguely amused look, one eyebrow raised; Fuery didn't even try to call him out on it, the young lieutenant just nodding in bold agreement. Rolling his eyes, Breda made a small gesture to get on with it, looking back towards Fuery again. "Anyway," he muttered gruffly- hiding the stubborn grin that he seemed just unable to banish. "What'd they say about him?"

Fuery's smile faded at that, and he looked away guiltily, seemed upset with himself. "I... don't entirely know," he admitted reluctantly, shoulders hunched. "I didn't know most of these words, either. I'm sorry... But it sounds like they're trying to force him to use his alchemy. And they were calling him Flame, so they know what he can do."

Jean frowned, his grin fading away into anxiety as he stopped in his marathon of eating for a moment. Use his alchemy? "...But... isn't he a prisoner here, like us?" he muttered, confused and completely lost. "Why would they want him doing alchemy? He could completely destroy this place if he wanted to..." He glanced uneasily around the noisy room, wondering if the Drachmans were really that stupidly overconfident. Did they not realize that if it was Mustang against all fifty guards against this room, if their commander had his alchemy, he'd win in an instant?

Of course, not that it mattered much, whether he'd win or not... in their current situation, Mustang would sooner shoot himself before he did something so astronomically stupid.

It was quiet for several moments, their group all contemplating what could possibly by the Drachmans' strategy. At last, Breda cut in. He wasn't looking at either of them, his gaze focused downwards on his food and his mouth barely moving while he ate; no one watching would be able to tell it was a conversation. "Think about what Drachma wants, you two. With all this snow, he'd be quite limited in the damage he could do- and besides, even if he wasn't, I doubt keeping this dammed place safe really matters to them. But, if they can goad King into attacking them..."

He didn't need to say anything else. Jean's eyes widened when he realized the implications and he swore internally, fists clenching.

Attacking them _would_ be astronomically stupid.

And that was exactly what Drachma was trying to force him to do.

_...This is bad_.

And apparently not done with the bad news yet, Fuery then cleared his throat hesitantly, his eyes wide and worried. "And that's not all," he mumbled, voice tense. "They're keeping his gloves soaked with... something. I don't know what; I didn't know the word, I'm sorry. But whatever it was, they found it... _funny_."

Breda started quietly. "...Funny?"

Oh, that did not sound like a good thing.

Fuery nodded, his eyes darkening at the memory. "Yeah. One of was laughing about it... said he'd like to see Flame try and burn them now. ...Then said he really didn't want to be in the room with him whenever he finally snapped, though..."

Jean frowned again, rubbing his face with his hand. This just kept getting worse. Soaking his gloves? But why? The only thing he could think of was water- but that didn't sound right, and besides, it would do nothing to further the Drachmans' plan. They wanted a goaded Flame Alchemist- not a goaded Flame Alchemist who couldn't start fires.

Breda rapped a finger quickly on the table to get their attention. "Alcohol," he murmured.

"What?"

"Alcohol," he repeated, his face grave. "He makes a spark with his gloves, yeah? Well, alcohol's extremely flammable. If you soak his gloves with that, he's worse than useless. ...Any attempt to do alchemy will create an uncontrollable explosion right in his face."

Jean couldn't stop himself from gasping this time, horrified. He wanted to deny it- but no, now that he'd said it, it was only too clear that was exactly what the Drachmans were hoping for. Those _bastards._ Mustang could wind up killing himself- and even worse than that-! "We've got to warn him!" he hissed furiously. "If he tries it even once, then everything will..." He cursed quietly, chewing on his lip again. "Fuery, do you think you can find out where he is?"

The young soldier nodded firmly. "Give me two more days."

Jean sighed grimly, clenching his aching fists. They might not have two days, he wanted to say- but, it was no good to worry the men like that. And besides, if Fuery said two days, that meant he'd already judged it would take four, but determined to cut it down simply because they needed him to.

He would just have to trust Mustang. Even if he didn't know the full extent of what the Drachmans were doing, he wasn't going to be so easily goaded into using his alchemy. He'd obviously made it through three days without trying- surely he could make it two more...

Next to him, Breda steadied himself, lying his hands out on the table. "All right," he said quietly. "Here's what we're going to do. First-"

The approach of one of the other inmates- Nikolai, he was pretty sure- from behind Fuery left his fellow captain shutting up immediately. He dug back down into what was left of his dinner and, getting the message, Jean did the same- Fuery, however, couldn't see what was happening behind him, and was just a second too slow to react.

The brute's hand shot out, taking the unsuspecting lieutenant unawares and tossing him to the ground. Fuery let out a small yelp of alarm but the Drachman ignored him entirely- instead, going for his untouched meal. Untouched, because Fuery had been too focused on first getting all the information he'd gathered across to even eat.

Nikolai said something in Drachman, laughed loudly- a few men nearby followed suit, instantly giving Jean the impression that this idiot was the ringleader of his own little gang. Pathetic schoolyard bullies was what it felt like to him, and he glared dangerously, fists clenching- but condescension became fury when the man picked up Fuery's food and, with that, started to walk away.

Jean was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, heading off with a fist in the air. _"Hey!"_ he shouted, launching himself over the table to stand protectively over Fuery. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Nikolai glanced back at him in haughty amusement, silence falling around them. Jean was well aware this brute saw himself as something of a leader around here, and for good reason- he was one of the biggest men here; Jean himself was only half his size. He'd probably thought he'd just swagger over here, assert his dominance by picking on the youngest and smallest in this group of foreigners, and that would be that.

Well, too bad for him.

Nikolai had actually started to approach, moronically raising his own fist, completely unaware Jean was trained in military combat whereas this brute had only been in street tussles before. Smirking slightly, Jean prepared to sidestep and crush him-

Then Breda snapped at him.

" _Jean._ Shut your mouth, and sit down. _Now!"_

And that was all he needed.

Right.

Too dangerous.

...Right.

Starting fights was the absolute last thing they needed- even if it was to protect one of their own or not. Even if that thug was standing there beating Fuery right in front of him, his hands would _still_ be tied, and he'd not be able to do a damn thing except watch.

They simply could not afford to give the Drachmans any more ammunition.

_Come on, Jean. Do what Mustang told you. Just keep your head down... stay calm..._

_Survive._

He couldn't do it.

Very painfully, so reluctantly he gritted his teeth and shook, Jean took a breath, then forced his hands up into a gesture for surrender and peace. He met the Nikolai's eyes meaningfully, giving him a hard look as he tried to get his message across without words. Neither spoke either other's language, so this was the best he could do- but, thank god, it did stop his advance.

Nikolai paused, smugly glancing down at where Fuery was still collapsed on the floor. Jean insides clenched with fury but he kept himself still, refusing to be goaded. Rather, he forced himself to offer up a placating, submissive grin- it was almost _painful,_ to look at the bastard like that- but it did the trick, when, with a smug smirk, Nikolai turned his back and trekked away, his lapdogs- and Fuery's dinner- with him.

Jean's fists clenched again, and he stood there and glared until the man was more than far enough away to ever be considered a threat to his comrades again.

_Count yourself lucky my hands are tied, you bastard._

If this had just been between him and the Drachman, that would've been fine. His pride was hardly the worst thing to ever be wounded, for the military and Mustang's sakes. But Fuery was still on the floor behind him, now gone all day without food because he'd risked his life to get them this information, and this was not over yet.

So, gritting his teeth, swallowing his pride yet again, and cursing all of this god dammed country down to hell, Jean turned his back and looked up towards one of the calmly watching guards.

It went against every instinct he had, to call for help like a child, but everything that this was was for the greater good. So he forced his kindest, most submissive smiles, and called "Hey." He pointed down towards Fuery, as if the bastard _hadn't_ just watched him get thrown to the ground and done nothing to stop it. "My friend's food was stolen. Can he get another?"

The guard grunted at him, looking straight through him. "Don't speak Amestrian," he said- despite the fact that Jean knew quite well that he _did._

His temper flared again. "You were looking right at him, damn it! You saw what just happened!"

"Don't speak Amestrian."

Jean swore, his fists clenching again.

Really, he'd had no right to ever expect anything different.

That was just the pecking order in this place, after all. Guards, then inmates- then, brand new foreigners like themselves. Foreigners who didn't even speak the language. Everyone was pitted against them, and the only friend they'd find in this place would be each other. The guards had their ulterior motives, of course, but to the other inmates, they were just Different. They were just the Others, the ones that stood out, the ones that'd be the easiest to knock down. They'd known this wouldn't be easy going in... this was just yet another obstacle in their path.

One they had no choice but to climb.

So, breathing heavily through clenched teeth, Jean forced himself to again turn his back, taking great pains to smooth out the hostility from his face, then reached down to help Fuery to his feet. "You okay?" he asked softly, wincing at the red mark underneath the dirt smudges and bruises on his cheek. That was going to look nasty later...

Fuery gave a small nod, pulling off his glasses to examine them. "...Sorry," he mumbled, unfocused eyes still not looking at him. "Should've seen him coming..."

Jean rolled his eyes. "With what, the eyes in the back of your head?" He gave him a pat on the shoulder and climbed back over the table, taking his seat next to Breda again. "We should've warned you."

Fuery sighed as he put his glasses back on, but didn't say anything. He sat back down as well, shifting uncomfortably and looking down at the empty place where his long gone dinner had been. He bit his lip forlornly and looked away, rubbing his stomach.

Jean didn't even have to look at Breda to know the man was thinking the same thing he was.

"Here," they said together, pushing over what they hadn't devoured yet to the lieutenant.

Fuery started a little, looking at them with wide eyes. "W-what?" he stammered, then shook his head. "Guys, it's my fault, really, I'm-"

"As the highest ranking officer present, I order you to take it," Breda interjected firmly, then pointed down at the meager remains again.

Jean rolled his eyes at him. "Now you're pulling a Mustang, idiot. And that line is dumb even when he uses it. ...And, hey! We're the same rank, dumbass!" He shared a conspiratorial wink with Fuery, then let the smirk soften into a fond grin. "Just eat faster next time, okay?"

Fuery blinked a little, his cheeks flushing as he slowly relaxed into a relieved grin, then finally just gave in and threw himself at the food.

Jean watched him fondly a moment, still grinning, then let his smile fade. His fists clenched under the table, and, slowly, he shifted to look over his shoulder.

He met eyes with Nikolai instantly.

Jean tilted his head pointedly towards the men, saying without words that if the brute wanted to pick a fight with any of them again, he'd be doing it with him. He warned without words _you don't want to touch them. Fight me._

The Drachman grinned nastily, and went back to his ill gotten meal.

Challenge accepted, then.

Nodding to himself, Havoc shifted back around to look at Breda and Fuery, satisfied. _I'll look after them for you, Mustang,_ he thought to himself determinedly, squaring his shoulders. _So you better be looking after yourself, too._

* * *

**Roy**

He hadn't seen anything in days.

They'd blindfolded him. Of that, he was sure. He knew what the difference was, between eyes that wouldn't work and eyes that were trying, and his were trying, still. There was just this damn, dumb cloth in the way. All things told, he actually wasn't that bothered by it.

He'd been blind for weeks before, after all.

Weeks!

So, this was nothing.

Nothing.

Besides, he reflected idly, it wasn't as if he was missing anything particularly gorgeous anyway. Drachma was quite the hideous country. Probably would be spending most of the time with his eyes shut, anyway.

He'd voiced that opinion, to his captors.

Figured the kick to the head had been worth it.

...Okay, the concussion not so much, but still. Nice little bit of fun in his days of complete tedium and boredom.

Oh- look at that. Speaking of that! Here it came again. Lovely.

He'd gotten quite good at listening to the footsteps in the metal hallway, learning which ones meant a guard just passing around and which ones meant he was about to have company. Quite good at figuring out which kinds of voices meant guards talking, and which kinds meant he was being shouted at and probably needed to figure out how to best protect his head in the very near future. This set was company time. And oh, joy, it was the worst one of the lot. There was a little bit of a rolling gait in his step, a limp, and his breath reeked of cigarettes. Colonel Azarov.

Though it had been so long since he'd actually seen him, Roy was actually starting to forget what he looked like. He imagined he looked like a cross between Bradley and Havoc, though, really, he had no idea.

Havoc.

His team.

...

Keys scraping in the lock dragged him back, a metallic jangling that grated on the ears. He situated himself a little more comfortably against his corner, raising shackled hands in the closest he could get to a wave and attempting a genial smile. Probably looked stupid. Lip was split and _damn,_ that smarted, but- hey, it was the thought that counted, right?

"Good morning!"

Azarov stilled and muttered something at him, something obscene, he imagined, then switched to Amestrian. " _You_. You, always too happy. You too... too _cheerful,_ for man in prison," he sneered, sounding smug, rough accent contorting its awkward way through the words, and Roy snorted.

"Perhaps that's how you see it. It's really just that my mother taught me to always be a gentleman." He paused; smirked a little. "A lesson I can see yours skipped on."

_Ow._ Okay, _ow._ That definitely felt like a boot. And that _definitely_ felt like the wall his head had slammed into a moment after the boot. _Ow._

It took a second for his head to stop spinning; too long. His senses came back just in time to tell him the man was closer now, looming over him and ready to strike again. He dragged together another cheesy grin, fumbling to find the words beneath the pounding in his head. "See? This is what I mean! That's not how you treat a guest..."

Out of nowhere, a filthy, grubby hand grabbed him by the hair, jerking his head back so severely his neck felt like it was being snapped. "Oh?" the man growled, and then he was right in his face, "Then tell me, Amestrian. What would _your country_ do to our soldiers, yes? How you treat them?"

He had to bite back a sigh. This one did this a lot; the hair-pulling, the face-spitting. It was disgusting, not to mention ultimately pointless. What exactly was he trying to get out of it? Confirm Drachma's reputation as mud-crawling, filthy, mannerless bastards?

"Well," he grated out after a moment, shifting uncomfortably under the weight pressing down on him and trying to turn his head at least a little out of the way; the hand in his hair yanked him back like he was scolding a child. "First off: we would offer beverages."

The Drachman snarled wordlessly, sharp, ungroomed fingernails scraping painfully against the back of his skull.

Roy smirked again. "Oh, my apologies. Is the word too sophisticated for you? I'll be base, then; lower myself to your-"

Boot to the head.

Ow. Again.

Ah, hello boot! Nice to meet you again!

Ow.

"...level." He swayed unsteadily, only kept upright by the hand that had dived back into his hair after withdrawing to kick him in the head. For a moment all he could process was the _pounding_ reverberating inside of his skull, but he stumbled back to find himself again, grinning through the pain and blood and dragging the words to continue to lurch out, now shambling in an unsteady death march. "Y-you know... _water?_ "

He wanted to pass out, now. Skip the rest of this pleasant conversation. Skip next boot to the head.

But, alas...

"Water? You want _water?"_ Azarov grunted at him, and then, he laughed. Laughed right in his face like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. "Then ask for it, Amestrian filth."

Ah, this game again. Lovely.

He just grinned at him, this time. Was a little too winded and reeling to put together the wiseass response that would've been most appropriate. Besides, they had danced this jig a few too many times, by this point; it had quite gotten old, in his opinion. Ask for water? Sure, easy enough.

In _Drachman._

Hughes was never going to let him live it down that he'd ignored his advice and gone for Cretan over this brute of a language, in the Academy.

"Nothing to say?!" Suddenly he was being dragged up, up, and up, lifted by the roots of his hair, and the bastard was right in his face again. "Nothing to say, Amestrian?!"

He jerked, unable to help himself from struggling in a panic. His bound legs flailed to get under him, to take some of the weight off his screaming scalp, words coming out before he'd given them permission. "You son of a-"

The blinding pain of a fist to his mouth sailed in out of nowhere. It smacked against his face with a heroic force that sent him spiraling out of the Drachman's grip to his knees again, slumped against the wall and gasping, straining against the shackles to get a hand to his bleeding mouth. "You- _mmmph!-_ you _fucking-"_

The punch to the mouth came again, this time with its best friend of heel to the chest. It ground into a nice collection of bruised ribs he had going on, and he couldn't stop the pained grunt. Lovely. Just. _Lovely._

Fuck Drachma.

He took a second to catch his breath this time, not about to give over a victory to these Drachmans like this. Control over himself was all he had, but as long as he had it, he was still winning, here- and this man knew it. He was trying to take it.

Well, it would take more than a few punches to make Roy Mustang lose control, thank you very much.

When he could, he cracked another sore grin.

"I can see decent hospitality is another trait your slob of a mother neglected to teach you."

...Okay, he probably did deserve that punch.

...And the kick to the stomach.

Azarov hauled him up again to knee him in the gut, leaving him doubled over and screaming obscenities in his head- not aloud, though, never aloud. He just hung limply in the air and kept that smug smile at the ready, full aware he was goading him, full aware it would hurt all the worse later, but still proud of it.

"You understand it yet, filthy Amestrian?!" He was kneed again and oh, _fuck._ His internal organs weren't thanking him kindly for being tossed around like scrambled egg, no, sir, they are not. "We don't want to hear your tongue! You speak Drachman here! You speak Drachman or don't speak at all!" This time it was a smack across the face.

Roy sighed again.

They always came to this point, inevitably. Azarov would get sick of putting up with him- not that he was doing his best to be most pleasant, really- and the Drachman would just start hitting him across the mouth just to get him to shut up.

Really, it was a nice respite for him.

Let him stop struggling to come up with clever, witty responses when his head currently felt like it was it was being overstuffed with tiny rodents desperately crawling to get out, and he really wasn't up for anything more than a nap.

That, of course, and continuing to exercise his self control.

He still had his gloves.

Sure, the alchemy shackles prevented him from drawing a circle, or touching his hands together in a clap- just _barely._ He could get so close to touching his fingers together it was agonizing, but even if he hadn't been able to... his gloves were still on. Snagged snugly around each of his fingers, and he knew they were _his_ because with every breath, he could feel the warm arrays tingle, eager to take the oxygen and shape it to his will. Every night when he shivered and froze, he could feel it, desperate to curl its familiar fingers over the air around him and keep him warm. Every day when the wind howled outside and he was so very cold he wanted to die, surrounded by Drachmans shouting and kicking, he could feel _his_ array begging him to take action.

In moments like this, the desire to fight back was almost overpowering.

Just a single snap of his fingers, and...

_No._

_Don't think about it, Mustang._

_Don't you dare think about it._

" _Pindos! Yobaniy mudila! IDI NA KHUI!"_

Boot to the head again-

For fuck's sake.

When Roy spoke again, it was entirely to get another blow. This one, hopefully, strong enough to knock him out entirely.

He was tired of company, and more than that, figured it would be far easier to control himself from snapping if he was unconscious.

He took a moment, letting his head settle back into place and the pain ease enough to leave his voice steady- couldn't have himself looking weak, now. He swallowed the blood welling on his bruised lip and put on his best smile. Lifted his head so if not for the blindfold, he'd be looking Colonel Azarov straight in the eye.

_Riza, do forgive me for what I'm about to say._

"You hit like a girl."

Annnd...

Oh, _ouch!_

Motherfucking-

_Ow!_

"Drachman women are not weak like _yours,_ Amestrian," the man spat- literally, spat, right on his cheek.

If Roy hadn't been too busy gasping, he would've smirked- right after gagging theatrically just to piss him off.

_Say that to Riza's face, you bastard..._

He missed Riza.

"Being hazed was worse than this," he choked out past another bit of blood in his mouth- and he actually meant it; being a scrawny sixteen year old in the Academy and already set to outrank them all with his watch the day of graduation had made for real shitty friend prospects, but, well, in the end-

" _Amestrian! Zedealy eta! ZEDEALY ETA!"_

His skull cracked against the wall.

Or an automail fist.

Probably the fist, he decided, over the roaring in his own head. It was probably the fist.

A hand grabbed his hair again as he fell. He was held up by the roots, impossible metal fingers slowly ripping out the strands one by one in little pinpricks of pain that faded into the darkness encroaching him from all sides. _"Zedealy eta, Amestrian!"_ Azarov screamed again, spittle flying onto his cheeks as he was shaken roughly, over and over again. _"ZEDEALY ETA!"_

He sighed distantly.

He really did miss Riza.

" _Suchka! Suchka bly suhcara-"_

And one steel-toed boot smashed directly into his ribcage.

" _ZEDEALY ETA!"_

Ow.

And that was enough. Because with that, his brain shut off, and he slumped forward until he just barely felt his cheek smash against the cold floor, restrained hands sandwiched underneath him, the edge of the shackles digging into perfectly shattered ribs.

Ow, owowow, _ow!_ he couldn't breathe, ow ow ow- fuck shit ow- _ow-_

_OW!_

_Ow..._

_..._

_Riza-..._

Darkness fell.

Just in time, too, because in that last moment, he'd seen Riza, he'd heard Azarov, and he'd felt the fist coming down on his head one more time- and his fingers had started to curl to snap.

   
By the lovely [Akarri](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5419659/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Before**

**January 14, 1918**

Bundled up from head to toe, sheltered under the awning of the warehouse, and quietly using his alchemy to warm up the air around him, and Roy _still_ managed to be absolutely, thoroughly _freezing_ and miserable because of it.

He huffed irritatedly in the storm, hugging himself and shivering. God damn this terrible country. God damn its military. God damn its snow. God damn its weather from hell. As far as he was concerned, Olivier Armstrong could take her northern stronghold and standoff with Drachma for all eternity; the moment he became Fuhrer, his first act was going to be to draw a line over his country's map, marking off everywhere that had snow any time of the year that was not winter, and cut them off to leave them their own, miserable little country- because he wanted _nothing_ to do with them.

...So, he may just be being a _teensy_ bit overdramatic.

Roy sighed heavily, shuddering as he watched his breath condense into a little miserable mist cloud in front of his face. "I hate Drachma," he muttered to himself, shivering in the snow.

His watch finally beeped at him, signaling the end of his shift, and grinning weakly through chattering teeth, Roy shoved off the wall and circled back around the warehouse, withdrawing back to his staff's temporary HQ. He maneuvered his way in between the cold, lonely buildings, trudging through the snow to finally slide back into the relative warmth of safety- relative warmth, of course, simply meaning that they were out of the biting wind and gusts of snow.

"All clear," he called out, then cleared his sore throat, wincing from the persisting cold. "Have fun, Havoc."

The captain glared sadly, hugging himself miserably on the floor as if he could already feel how horrible it would be. "Sure thing, Boss," he muttered as he dragged himself to his feet, preparing to go take his place out in the storm.

Hawkeye had beaten him back, as well, because Breda was gone to replace her, and his adjutant was sitting on the floor with the rest of the men, perfectly composed despite the fact that she was shivering violently and snow covered her from head to toe. Sighing fondly, Roy made his way over to sit next to her, folding his legs and leaning pointedly close to her shoulder. "Cold, Major?"

"You k-know q-quite well that w-we are _all_ c-c-cold, General," she snapped through chattering teeth. Her eyes were like ice when they bored into him, quite plainly unamused at his silent suggestion that they share body heat to warm up.

Sigh. She really did know him too well- and what was more, she _never_ let him have any fun. "Fine, then," he huffed petulantly, raising his mitten-covered hands and meeting his palms together in a clap. With a crackle of alchemy, the snow clinging to them both was deconstructed, swirling up from them in a steamy mist, and then he warmed the air up around them, heating it up to a nice and toasty vacation at the beach instead of mission in snow hell.

Falman and Fuery both released long, high-pitched moans of relief at the sudden warmth, as short-lived as it would be; Hawkeye tried to hide it, but they could all see how she minutely relaxed, tenseness fading away for a splitsecond sigh of contentment. Emboldened and pleased, Roy moved even closer, daring to drop his arm around her shoulder with a satisfied smile.

Hawkeye sighed at him, opening one eye. She tried to frown for a moment, then just gave in, accepting the one-armed hug with a fond sigh. "You're quite lucky we need a space heater on this mission, sir, or else I might not be so forgiving," she chided warmly, and Roy was so pleased with both the temperature and hard-won hug with his adjutant it took him several seconds to realize he'd just been insulted.

"I'm a match, I'm a campfire, I'm a space heater..." he grumbled, squeezing her closer to him as punishment. "What's next, a microwave?"

"What? Oh, of course not, General," she told him, perfectly straight faced. "You know that you're not allowed to use a kitchen without supervision, sir. Not after last time."

From where they were working on browsing nearby radio frequencies, Falman snorted unabashedly while Fuery made a decidedly pathetic attempt at covering his highly amused squeak of laughter behind his fist. Sulking, Roy glared at them all. He should've known they'd all side with Hawkeye before him. As if he couldn't just as easily leave them all freezing and hog all the warm air to himself...

"So, are you two up to anything besides laughing behind my back, Chief Warrant Officer? First Lieutenant? If not, your talents can always be relegated towards guard duty out in the snow."

They both sobered, though he doubted the empty threat was really the reason why. Falman cleared his throat while Fuery continued to fiddle with his equipment, not looking up. "We've found a few transmissions going on but so far, nothing military. One was even just two kids playing a game."

Fuery nodded absentmindedly, pressing the headset to one of his ears again. "Not much happening. I'm isolating another conversation, though... the signal's encrypted so it's taking a few minutes, but I've almost... yes! Got it!"

Falman straightened a little, reaching again for his own headset. He listened silently for several seconds, then abruptly stiffened, frowning slightly. "This may be something, General," he announced, dropping the headset and reaching to set the radio on speaker.

Rough Drachman immediately filtered into the small, freezing space, and Falman cleared his throat as he began to translate. "...Things aren't going well; someone is moving too quickly. There's been a problem. They weren't expecting this to happen so fast. They..."

He frowned as another voice interrupted the first one, this one shouting angrily- not that Drachman ever sounded anything but angry. "He's ordering that something be done to fix it. Says the mission has to succeed."

"Wait, mission? Ordering?!" Roy interrupted, his eyes widening. "Is this military?"

Falman nodded without looking at him, still staring at the radio as he struggled to translate in real time. "He's saying to pull back. The people need to have been here at least a month for the plan to work... Lead them deeper into the country... distract them..."

" _Da, Palkovnik Azarov."_

Then the Drachman stopped, and the transmission cut out.

"Palkovnik Azarov?" Roy quoted, frowning. "That sounds like someone's name...?"

Falman nodded. "Yes- Colonel Azarov, roughly. He was the one giving the orders. I never got a name for the other party, though."

"...Could that have been relating to us?" Fuery hedged nervously. He set his headset down for a moment, looking unsettled. "This equipment isn't that sensitive, sir. They have to have been within a five hundred foot radius... there's no way this is just a coincidence..."

Roy had to agree. After their close run in with the Drachman military on the train, they'd all been on high alert for anything else suspicious- and this was the definition of suspicious. "At the moment, we don't know enough about anything to be sure. But I-"

At that moment, the radio crackled again, this time Havoc reporting in from his station outside. _"Everyone, we've got movement out here,_ " he managed; Roy could hear his teeth chattering from the cold already. _"A truck is pulling out of one of the warehouses. I think three people are inside. Can't tell if one is our target or not but it's heading out of here, east."_

Fuery stiffened, his eyes wide. "Okay, now that _can't_ be a coincidence!"

Roy cursed under his breath. Once again, Fuery was absolutely correct. Barely a minute after they overheard discussion about retreating, Havoc witnessed exactly that? Not to mention this was a secluded, isolated area. They'd tracked Gorbachev to this general section of the city over the harrowing course of a week; granted, while it was possible there was more than one military-involved figure hiding out here, it was astronomically unlikely.

But, then, if that was the case...

Why were the Drachmans trying to bait them?

Roy grimaced, writhing his fingers in the restrictive but warm mittens and suddenly wishing they were clothed only in his sleek, well-fitting gloves, no matter the biting cold. He wished for the freedom to snap and fight, because this was feeling less and less like an extraction and more and more like a fight. "Whatever's going on, I don't think we can risk the assumption that that conversation wasn't about us," he said at last, resting his elbows on his knees. "It's looking like the Drachmans knew we were coming all along, or at least are trying to take advantage of us, somehow, now that we're here. I don't know why, but I'm confident something is going on here that we weren't prepared for."

There was a short silence, Hawkeye sitting stiffly by his side while Fuery and Falman knelt still over the radio equipment, neither attempting to eavesdrop anymore. They all exchanged silent looks of unease, listening to the wind howl outside and facing the possibility that they were now deep in enemy territory- an enemy that was currently playing with them.

Roy sighed.

He'd never wanted to take this mission in the first place.

At last, Falman sat back as well, shivering in the cold as it crept back after being pushed away earlier. "Sir, I don't like this. I wasn't at Briggs for very long, but I saw enough of how Drachma works. If this is some plan of theirs, we want nothing to do with it."

"Perhaps so, Warrant Officer, but we're not here because we want to be." Hawkeye only then pulled a little away from him, sliding out from under his arm and into professional military decorum as naturally as breathing. "We're here because for Amestris' sake, not our own. And currently, that means taking Drachma's spy back with us so we can be better equipped prevent them from doing something like this again in the future."

"But..."

"Look, I agree with Falman," Fuery cut in hesitantly. "We should at least call General Armstrong now, sir!"

Actually, Roy wasn't entirely turned off by the idea this time- the possibility of at least some backup was downright tantalizing- but at his comrade's words, however, Falman winced. "Ah... that might not be the best idea..."

Roy grimaced again. Beautiful. "Speak clearly," he ordered tensely.

Falman shrugged uneasily. "It's just... we have no proof of anything. What we overheard doesn't prove anything. Armstrong's not going to let us come back with this little... in fact, she'll probably insist harder that we stay, to figure out what's going on."

"Retreating isn't the only option, you know. She could send more soldiers to assist us."

For a moment, Falman just looked at him blankly. Then his face slipped into a bitterly amused grin, and he raised an eyebrow, seeming on the verge of actually bursting into laughter. "Did you just say General Armstrong will send us backup? Because... you're worried the mission is going to be harder than expected? ...Is that what you actually said, sir?"

...

Well, put like that, he did have a very fair point.

"Fine," he grumbled, making his decision. "We'll not call her as of yet, simply because it wouldn't change our situation and I'd have to tolerate that bloodthirsty psycho laughing my ears off."

"But, sir-!"

" _However,"_ he stressed, raising a hand for silence. "However. We're now proceeding under the assumption that this is a trap." He paused for a moment, thinking harder. "The Drachmans said they were going to try and bait us deeper into the country, correct?"

"Yes, sir..."

"Well, then- that's our answer." He smiled grimly. "We postpone picking up Gorbachev for now, under the assumption that it's a trap. Rather, we wait, and we observe. The further north you go, the less populated this place gets. There's nothing in the north for us. The capital, however, is due west of here- that is most likely where Gorbachev will head from here. We go there, then- even if our trail appears to lead north. If this Colonel Azarov turns up there?" He shrugged. "Then we have proof that he's tracking us. If not, we proceed with the spy-napping and go home. Easy enough. Either way- we outsmart the Drachmans, keep ourselves safe, and are able to complete our mission."

He said it with more confidence than he really felt, trying to instill some sense of ease back into the troops because they were all clearly just as unsettled by their current situation as he was. Of course, his men were not naive, and saw straight through the ruse. They knew that this wasn't good- but, as he'd tried to remind them, it wasn't bad, either. Not yet. The Drachmans thought they had the element of surprise still, and that was going to be their downfall.

Whatever it was they were planning, Roy was determined not to let it come to fruition.

_You've just met your match, Colonel Azarov,_ he thought darkly, smiling grimly again.

* * *

**After**

**2.2 February 18th, 1918**

The day before their plan to reach Mustang was put into action, things went south.

It was expected, Jean reflected later that night, nursing his sore face with an icepack made from snow. After all, tension had been building up all week- it had to go at some point, and given how their luck had been lately, of _course_ things would snap the night before they made a desperate attempt to find their commander.

Some days, Jean really was convinced Mustang was just a bad luck charm, because there was just no other explanation for the amount of shit that managed to go wrong whenever he got involved. He was almost worse than _Ed,_ and that was really saying something.

It was when they were sequestering themselves off for what passed as lunch around here, forming their own little protective group in the snow, keeping to a tightly knit circle in the already fast descending dark. They went to great pains to keep to themselves, and most of the Drachmans followed their lead, at least, failing at catching anyone of them alone and not quite confident to attack when all three of them were together...

But, that didn't stand for Nikolai.

The brute and his pathetic gang swaggered over to them in their daily intimidation attempt, scattering anyone else nearby- save for the guards, who just looked blindly away, doing everything but physically turning their backs to the abuse. Jean gritted his teeth, shifting protectively in front of his comrades even as the thug wondered his way over to smirk down at him, absolutely _radiating_ smugness.

Jean glared harder at him, so irritated it took all of his self control to not punch the confidence right off his face.

Nikolai grinned nastily at him. "Amestrians," he greeted with an air of pseudo-pleasantness, one of the very few words he understood, and Jean nodded stiffly back.

"Drachman."

Nikolai just stood there for a few moments, simply _looking_ down at him, then flexed his hands in an obnoxious show of intimidation. Jean waited for him to steal food, or brusquely shoulder his way in to force him to the facedown into the snow, or maybe just give him a whack or two before heading off again. The bastard had taken his unsaid challenge the previous week with a shred of honor, at least, leaving his comrades out of this- and so long as Fuery and Breda were all right, he was all right, too. Nikolai could keep on testing him to the end of time, for all that he was concerned... as long as it was just the two of them, he wasn't going to snap.

After several long, unbearably still moments, Nikolai simply dropped down to sit down on the snow across from him with a grim smirk.

Jean stiffened, sharing an alarmed look with Breda and Fuery. His fists clenched in his lap as he prepared for a fight, again shifting himself just a little more protectively in front of his comrades- Nikolai, however, made no move to attack them. He just looked at him, with that unbearably smug grin of his- radiating the feel of someone who knew he had the upper hand.

At last, the bastard turned to Fuery, and spoke.

Fuery started a little in surprise but listened to him, his mouth moving in silence as he tried to piece together the meaning. Jean listened intently, fists still clenching together, but the words seemed empty of any malice- hell, he was actually trying to get Fuery to understand, which was more than he could say for the guards, who clearly found their lieutenant's lack of ability at their language hilarious and rubbed it in every chance they got. But Nikolai spoke slowly, watching him with a meaningful stare as he waited for Fuery to get it.

Abruptly, Fuery sat bolt upright, his eyes widening. He queried something clumsily in Drachman, suddenly urgent, and when Nikolai nodded the soldier rushed to swivel back around to face them. "Sirs!" he exclaimed, then jumped and lowered his voice, as if only now remembering to be quiet. "He says there's another Amestrian here! That he's even seen him- he knows if he's okay or not!"

Jean gasped.

"Bishop or King?!" Breda pressed urgently on his left, shaking off his shock just a second before Jean did.

Fuery grinned boldly. "Bishop."

Jean let out a tense sigh of relief, slumping a little in his seat. Mustang, they were still overhearing information about daily- Mustang, if everything went well, they would've gotten to talk to him by tomorrow night. And even then, his life shouldn't _really_ be in danger, not if Mustang's plan worked.

But none of that was true for Falman.

He spun back around to face Nikolai, unable to help his eager grin. Jean gestured mutely, desperately, striving to get across without words he'd give anything for the information. He'd be alive, surely, he had to be- but his wounds...

Slowly, Jean's smile started to fade when he realized Nikolai was not making even the slightest attempt to answer him.

That dammable smug smirk was back, and growing again, spreading across the thug's face like he was proud of it. And the two men behind him were laughing quietly, too, smirking along with their pathetic leader and watching them all like it was just fucking hilarious- they simply weren't in on the joke.

Fuery squirmed hesitantly by his side, looking unsettled. After several moments, he questioned Nikolai again, sounding unsure of himself- but once again, rather than respond to it, the man just looked at him, radiating such cold, cruel confidence it made the previous excitement shrink up into a cold, hard lump of fear.

At last, it hit him.

They weren't going to tell them.

They'd run into Falman, all right- they _had_ to have, because that was the only way Nikolai would know there were other Amestrians here. They knew if he was okay or not. They knew if he was _alive_ or not.

And, quite simply, Nikolai was not going to tell them.

Just like that, the tension and unrest that had been growing and growing with each day they spent in this prison boiled over, and any self control he'd had left completely snapped.

Jean's fist shot out to grab the son of a bitch by his shirt, hauling him forward and nearly lifting him straight up off the ground. "Tell me!" he hissed, and while it wasn't a shout his voice near vibrated with the ferocity of his desperation all the same. _"Tell me!"_

Nikolai, grinning, just shook his head.

He sat there frozen, his blood boiling. Falman could be dead right now- _dead!_ And this son of a bitch sauntered over here to rub the fact that he _knew_ in his face- knew and wouldn't tell them.

_He could fucking need our help... and YOU... you won't tell us-_

Something deep inside him snapped, and with a bestial roar, Jean threw himself at Nikolai.

Perhaps it was the weeks of abuse and struggle in this damn prison. Perhaps it was the anxiety of being separated from their commander. Perhaps it was just how painfully unable they'd been for so long now to protect themselves, forced to stand by and watch as Drachmans hurt their friends and do nothing to stop it. Perhaps he was just so tense and impatient and frustrated and frightened he just wanted to punch someone.

Whatever it was, Jean socked Nikolai in the face, and with that, instigated a full out brawl.

Nikolai's men joined in first, throwing themselves right back at him and trying to haul him back from their friend- but they were pathetic street toughs; he was military trained, three Drachman idiots against a furious Amestrian captain wasn't even a fair fight. It wasn't even close. And he relished in it.

"Jean!" Breda shouted, reaching for him, "Stop! You idiot-"

But it was too late to stop the small scale fist fight from dissolving into an outright prison riot.

* * *

Kain stared, aghast.

What in the ever living _hell_ was Havoc doing?

_"Jean!"_ Breda shouted again, but Havoc was not going to answer him, currently buried under three thrashing Drachmans and kicking like a wild animal. Breda cursed under his breath and smacked a hand to his face in exasperation. "Goddamnit, Jean, what the hell...!"

Shaking off his own disbelief, Kain pushed past him, preparing to throw himself in as well. "Come on!" he cried, tugging at Breda's arm, "we've got to help him!" Even if this was a ridiculously bad idea on Havoc's part, well, there was no taking it back now- all there was to do was get in there and fight with him.

For a moment, Breda actually looked like he was about to. Then suddenly, he gasped, yanking back on his sleeve so hard Kain nearly lost his balance, the captain inserting himself in between him and the fight. "No!"

"N-no?!"

Breda nodded emphatically, tugging them back a step further as more Drachmans became embroiled in the fight and Havoc started shouting insults even louder than before. "No, I'll go- you get out of here! Find Mustang!"

Kain's eyes widened, and he stared between Breda and the fight in surprise. "What?! _Now?!_ But Havoc- and I thought we weren't going until tomorrow!"

"We weren't, until Havoc decided to fuck that over. They'll be watching too closely after this stupid stunt; we might not get another chance!' Breda pushed him back another step, even as he started to roll up his sleeves to toss himself into the riot. "Come on, I'll keep this going as long as I can- _go!"_

And with that, Breda threw himself into the fray.

When Breda's spot on analysis dawned on him, Kain cursed quietly, glaring as his two friends embroiled themselves in a fight without him- then shook his head, forced himself to turn away, and sped quietly away into the darkness.

For Mustang.

He sprinted across the camp, weaving silently between buildings and avoiding detection as he raced for the cold structure on the furthest edge. The moment he reached his target he threw himself to the ground, belly crawling along the back of it until he was completely out of sight and hidden by the building's shadow. He could hear the fight raging on behind him, even Havoc screaming, _That's for Amestris, you dumb fuck!_ and couldn't help rolling his eyes. The idiots were actually enjoying this...

Kain shut his eyes, counting out the steps as he pushed himself along. If his calculations were right, and they _were_ , damn it, then his destination should be right... about...

Here.

Kain came to a stop, took a deep breath, and knocked his fist against the metal wall.

For several moments, there was no reply. For so long nothing came that he really did start to fear that this wasn't the right place- but then-

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The military's silent, improved version of Morse code. Code for...

_Kain?_

He grinned in relief.

_At your service, sir,_ he tapped back, dropping his face into his hand with a shuddering sigh. He really _was_ alive!

_What's going on?_ Mustang tapped back after a moment, obviously confused. _Are you okay? How did you find me?_

_Needed to talk to you, sir,_ he passed along as quickly as he could. He didn't have much time. _I'm fine. What about you; are you all right?_

_...Never better,_ Mustang told him after an uncertain pause, as if he hadn't been sure how to answer. _What about the others? Havoc, Breda, Falman?_

It was Kain's turn to hesitate. _...Havoc and Breda are here and okay, too,_ he tapped reluctantly, figuring the ongoing riot wasn't something he should mention, _but... Falman... I'm sorry, sir. They've talked about him, and I think he's here, but I just don't know the words they're using. I'm sorry..._

Once again, what Nikolai had told them- barely passing for information at all, it was so pitiful- just wasn't something he should tell Mustang.

This was all his fault, he thought miserably, dropping his head against the metal. Falman and Hawkeye would've been fine if he'd just translated faster in the first place, and now they couldn't even find him because he just _couldn't_ speak it well enough... why couldn't he do anything but screw up?!

Mustang, however, didn't reprimand him. _You never once claimed to be fluent, and I didn't bring you here because you spoke Drachman, Fuery. But, enough. Why are you here?_

He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself and allowing himself a weak, proud smile. Right- there'd be time for this later. Now there was a job to be done. _I overheard the Drachmans, sir. They're trying to make you use your alchemy._

_Well, obviously. I have my gloves still._

Kain grinned weakly. _There's more, though..._ And he passed on what Breda had figured out about the alcohol.

After receiving the message, Mustang was quiet for several moments, absorbing the news that even if it hadn't been for the Drachman's plan, now he couldn't fight back even if he had to. Kain bit his lip in the silence, suddenly wishing there was more he could do, and he waited quietly for his answer. At last, another reply came.

_I was wondering what that smell was. Good job, Fuery._

Kain hesitated, but when nothing else was forthcoming, he uncertainly started to yield to something less professional or formal; more concerned. He was worried about him. _Are you okay, sir? Can I get you anything?_

He swore he could just barely hear a faint chuckle from beyond the wall. _Fine, Lieutenant. Now, get back to your station._

_Sir?_

_I imagine you don't have much time. You've spent too much here as it is._

Kain bit his lip again and looked over his shoulder. The general sure was perceptive... but, he could still hear the fight going on in the background, with no signs yet of stopping. He had at least a few more minutes; Breda would buy him as much time as he could, and Breda was very good at buying time. _No, it's okay, I can stay-_

_If the Drachmans find you here, they can accuse you of trying to break me out. We can't risk that. You need to get back- and don't come here again, Fuery._

_But, sir!_

_Lieutenant,_ Mustang tapped, and somehow even in those tiny noises he could hear Mustang snapping at him in an unbreakable order. _I will hold out as long as I need to. You just need to lie low and not give the Drachmans any more reason than they already have to make things worse for us. Stick with Havoc and Breda, watch each others' backs, and stay away from me._

Kain wilted miserably. He was right... it went against everything he'd ever been taught to turn his back on his commander like this- but, he was right. It was just too dangerous, and after everything they'd all already sacrificed, they _could not_ fail now.

And anyway, besides friendly company, there wasn't much any of them could do for Mustang, anyway...

_...Yes, sir,_ he made himself answer, hanging his head.

It was quiet for several moments, and Kain thought Mustang must've been done talking. Slowly, he started to withdraw, pulling his hand away and shifting to return to his comrades. He gave the wall another reluctant, painful look and dropped himself back down onto his stomach- then stopped, when his commander's fist wrapped smartly against the metal again.

_Kain._

That was all it was, just his name. Still, Kain pulled himself back upright, returning to his side without hesitation and even managing a weak grin, desperate to be of use. _Sir?_

_...We will get out of this. Stay strong, soldier._

His eagerness to help faded. His smile, however, remained.

_You, too, sir,_ he tapped back at last.

And for the first time in days, he was confident again that they could do this.

With that, Kain left Mustang, slipping back into the night. He stayed low, running as fast as he could and making it back just as the guards finally began to restore order, smacking even uninvolved prisoners to the ground and beating those who had, until now, been busy beating themselves. Kain managed to interweave himself into the crowd of onlookers easily, smaller than everyone else and well practiced in blending in. He fixed himself in as naturally as if he had never left, standing near the front.

No surprise, Havoc and Breda were among those being punished. Kain winced for a moment to see the blows raining down on their heads, wishing he could stop this or at least take the abuse with them- but then, Havoc's roaming, searching gaze finally found his, and a moment later, so did Breda's.

Silently, he flashed them a very brief thumbs up.

And even as they were punched, kicked, and stomped into the freezing snow, both of them grinned.

* * *

**Roy**

Kain came by to talk to him today.

His youngest, once softest, soldier was holding up well. Admirably so, perhaps, if he'd been under another's command.

But Roy knew his men through and through, and he found himself unable to call it _admirable,_ really, not one bit. Kain was just performing as was asked of him, and the only reason Roy had asked it of him was because he knew he could do it.

Same with all the rest of them.

So, he wasn't surprised. He'd known they could do this, and had from the start.

He was still proud of them.

He was still worried about them.

But it did something peculiar to his heart, to know that after everything they're surely going through now, suffering because of his failure as their commander, they were still working for him, supporting him unseen. Of course, he knew that even if their commander had been fucking Basque Gran himself, risen from the dead like the devil he was, they'd still have found a way to warn him; the stakes were just too high- and they were good men. Good soldiers, each and every one of them. They'd have warned him regardless.

But he wasn't Basque Gran, and he knew that even after this mission, when he'd inadvertently led them straight into hell, his soldiers would still follow him.

For that, he was grateful.

For their loyalty to him, he still swore that no matter what else, he would see them home.

Roy sighed to himself in the darkness, flexing his worthlessly gloved hands. And then, there was that information his loyal subordinates had risked so much to bring him. ...Truthfully?

Azarov's arrogance annoyed him.

How dare that man try to take control of his gloves? How _dare_ he try and take control of the array that was _his,_ that he had spent years perfecting and making his own? The _arrogance_ of that man. Did he think it'd be so easy? Was he such a pathetic, unintelligent brute this was really all he could think to do? Not make an effort to understand the array (ha! as if he could); no, just keep dumping Drachman vodka on his hands and taunting him until, oops, slip of the fingers?

Dumbass.

It was childish and pathetic.

And now that he knew their strategy, it was going to be laughably easy to resist.

Roy paused for a moment, leaning his aching head against the cool metal. An intermittent shiver rolled through him, making his teeth chatter and his gloved hands shake.

Even at the sound of footsteps in the hallway again, footsteps that belonged very much so to Colonel _fucking_ Azarov, he still found himself tempted, not to blow the son of a bitch up, but just bring himself a little warmth in this miserable, frozen prison.

His fingers twitched again, and his alchemy remained quietly dormant.

Roy still did his very best to arrange a warm smile at the sound of the door being unlocked- as if there was a fucking point to locking it; not as if he could go anywhere, by this point- and sat up a little straighter. The effort made his ribcage scream and even moving his face hurt in ways he'd not believed possible, before... but his pride was all he had left.

His pride, and his men.

"Cheers, Colonel," he greeted kindly, and grinned just a little brighter. "What, oh what, are you doing here, though? Shouldn't you be at the bar with your subordinates this hour? I'm quite touched! You're choosing my company over-"

_Smack!_

"...theirs."

Damn.

The colonel swore at him in rough Drachman, a grunted, leering sort of insult, and Roy barely was able to flinch back in time before he was right in his face again, as per usual. "Haven't learned your manners yet, Amestrian?" he sneered disgustingly, and Roy couldn't help but cringe.

"And haven't _you_ learned-"

_Smack!_

"...n-not to smoke b-before-"

_Smack! Smack! SMACK!_

"...g-getting within... k-kissing dis... tance-"

_WHAM!_

Oh.

_Fuck._

Yeah... that had been the automail one.

Yeah.

Ow.

"Learned your lesson _now,_ Amestrian?" Azarov laughed, a metal hand smacking against his face again- thank god in a chilling, stinging slap, not another punch, and Roy let himself just slump against the wall, head reeling.

Maybe it was time to take a break from talking for a little while.

When he kept his silence, he heard Azarov get another smug laugh, although Roy was sure the bastard was just a _little_ disappointed; meant now he had to find another excuse to turn his head into a fine paste, not just go at him for daring to speak Amestrian in his holier than thou Drachman presence. As if he was somehow supposed to have learned the brute's language overnight.

"Nothing to _say?!"_

_Nothing that won't get me a broken jaw, asshole..._

"Tch... worthless scum." The hand holding him up by the collar of his shirt vanished, leaving him to drop heavily to the floor with no way to balance himself. Roy scrabbled to brace himself in time, but no amount of measured breathing could get himself ready for the way his broken ribs _screamed_ at the rough landing and it took every bit of strength he had not to cry out.

God _damn._ God... motherfucking... _damn it._

_OW!_

Azarov swore something at him in Drachman again, voice rough and violent, and a boot came at his already bruised side, brutally flipping him onto his stomach. _"Zedealy eta, suhcara, suhcka! Zedealy bly eta!"_

And with that he was gone, his cold, limping footsteps thumping away from him to leave him cold, shivering, and half dead on the floor.

It took him quite a while after the footsteps had faded to let himself slide into a weak, exhausted, sardonic grin.

That was probably the quickest he'd irritated Azarov into leaving him alone.

Nice.

Goddamn.

Very, very gingerly, Roy started to push himself up off the floor, maneuvering his shackled hands as best he could. It hurt like nothing else and he gasped through gritted teeth but didn't dare open his mouth, instincts still warning him against the dangers of speaking.

At last, when he felt like he could breathe again, he started inching himself forward, cautiously feeling for the meager cup of water the Drachman had left behind. Couldn't have captured Amestrian generals dying of dehydration, after all; that'd be just _silly._

Silly.

As if this whole god dammed premise of the Drachmans' wasn't silly or horrific or _insane_ in the first place.

Silly. Fuck.

He coughed and spluttered, the awkward maneuvering it took to get the cup to his swelling mouth and the pain in his chest and his dry, parched throat made it all a fucking hellish time but he finally managed it, then irritatedly tossed the cup away. He heard it clank on the metal flooring and sighed, huddling up into himself as tightly as he could, back in his corner. His own little freezing corner sanctuary.

Roy sighed again, and made a conscious effort to close his eyes under the blindfold, marching towards yet another sleepless night.

He hoped his team, at least, was more comfortable than he was.

He hoped Riza was...

_I hope to god she's home right now._

_I hope to god she's safe._

He hoped they were all safer than he was.

The array on his gloves tingled eagerly, singing with the desire to snap and destroy, not for his own sake, but for theirs, if Colonel goddamn Azarov so much as _touched_ them.

He breathed in as deeply as he could, relishing the pain of it, and reminding himself that the only people he'd be hurting would be his own.

_Stay safe, men._

_Stay safe until I can do it for you._

He closed his eyes again, inhaling the cold, bloody scent of exhaustion and pain, and settled in for another long, miserable night.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Before**

**January 21, 1918**

Two days after Roy and his men reached the Drachman capital, they managed to pick up their target's trail again.

It seemed he had miraculously entered the capital himself only a single day after them- indeed, as if he was not running from them, but _following_ them- coming down to their position in a relocation from the high, frozen north.

It all but confirmed the Drachman conspiracy against them.

Roy still wasn't sure whether or not to be smugly triumphant they'd so easily outwitted the Drachmans into spilling their hand or trepidatious because they were now stranded in the middle of an enemy city- with said enemy very aware of their presence and _very_ much out to get them.

Currently, they were stalking-not-stalking their target. Now that they knew Drachma was obviously not that in the dark about their presence here as they'd hoped, hiding themselves was no longer a great concern. Rather, they needed to tempt the Drachmans into a place of security, to try and force them into spilling their hand even further.

Which was why Roy was in the middle of leading his team on a hunt throughout the capital, out in broad daylight, making absolutely zero attempt to hide from prying eyes.

Or, almost all of his team.

He and Hawkeye were at the head, weathering the cold, biting wind as they stalked throughout the capital's streets, Havoc, Breda, and Fuery behind them. The day before, Falman had given a very public show of spraining his ankle on a patch of ice and needing to be carried back to their hotel room, so, _obviously,_ Falman wasn't available to join them today.

Obviously.

The fact that his extraordinarily sneaky warrant officer had slipped out under the cover of darkness the night before and was trailing them with a jerryrigged set of eavesdropping equipment that he now knew the ins and outs of, courtesy of Fuery, was likely slipping completely underneath the Drachman's radar.

The plan was definitely a good one, Roy thought; safe, effective- even carrying the Hawkeye stamp of approval. If all went well, it'd leave them knowing all the more about their enemy's plans before the night was out, and if not, it would not be too difficult to repeat it again tomorrow, and then the day after that- as long as it took for Azarov to slip up and reveal everything they needed to know. It was, in retrospect, a nearly _perfect_ plan.

He just begrudged the fact that that it had him freezing his ass off for hours on end while his subordinate enjoyed himself in a blissfully warm car.

Roy stopped briefly as he led the way around a corner, nearly bowled over by ferocious, unforgivably _cold, cold, COLD!_ gust of wind. It cut through him so sharply he gasped, only his cheeks exposed but even that little enough to leave him stunned for a moment, shaking in the cold. It howled in his ears as it gusted again-

Updrafting a hunk of snow slipping precariously on the roof above to whirl the rest of its way over the edge, and hit him smack dab on the top of the head.

Perfect.

Just perfect.

He was pretty sure that that noise was Havoc, laughing so hard he could barely even stay on his feet. For a moment, Roy considered murdering him.

But murdering him via fire would leave him just warm and toasty before his death, which really was not fair, considering his current predicament- so instead, Roy just stood there, seething as the snow slushed down his back, his hair absolutely soaked, chilled to the bone and shivering so hard he couldn't have warmed himself up with clap alchemy even if he'd tried.

He tried to blow a sopping swath of hair out of his eye. The wind flopped it right back.

"Sir?" Hawkeye called over the wind. He heard her boots crunch in the snow next to him and suddenly she was directly in front of him, thickly gloved hands patting clumsily at his face as she tried to push his hair out of the way. "Are you all right?"

Oh, yes, that was definitely Havoc laughing, all right.

"H-H-H-Hawkeye?"

His voice was like ice, and Havoc shut up instantly.

Her cold gloves patted at his face again, a wool barrier between his skin and his soaked hair. "Yes, sir?"

He shivered miserably again.

"H-have I e-e-ever mentioned h-how much I h- _hate_ the snow?" It was a pathetic, plaintive sort of moan, and for a moment, was so cold he honestly thought he'd die. "B-Because I do. ...I h- _hate_ it."

Positively, absolutely, murderously, _hated_ it.

Hawkeye sighed, her hands coming to rest on his cheeks for a moment, her own face red from the cold but her eyes deceptively warm. "Of course, sir," she told him, cold glove patting his even colder face, wet face for a moment. "It's simply frozen rain."

Roy groaned.

Why had he ever thought this was a good plan, again?

* * *

Things went from bad to worse when, late that night, Falman finally snuck back into their room only for them to learn that he'd heard absolutely no chatter the entire day. He wasn't even sure anyone had been watching them aside from himself. They had no further evidence of any Drachman conspiracy, no further knowledge about the possible trap against them- not even any leads about Gorbachev.

Which meant, of course, he was just going to have to put himself out there as bait again tomorrow.

Roy had stomped into the shower after that, threatening that if anyone so much as tried to interrupt his hot water with news of anything other than the building being on fire, they were going to die, then slammed the door.

He fucking hated the cold.

* * *

The next night, the story was much the same, as it was the night after that. On the fourth day, Roy had already concluded this was to be their _last_ venture into the snow, wondering around like blind idiots, dangling themselves like worms on a fishing line in hopes that a Drachman team they weren't even sure was following them would bite. If Drachma didn't show after today, they were going to refocus their efforts on Gorbachev.

That night, upon returning to their hotel, his whole team was demoralized and sick of it all, even Fuery, who had a real talent for managing to smile even in the worst possible situation. There was just something draining about spending four patently useless days getting snowed on, and by this point, they were all downtrodden, irritated, and _freezing_. They trudged miserably back into the hotel that was barely any warmer than outside, allowing Hawkeye to lead the way- even his indomitable major was clearly struggling, though, and somehow, that knowledge wore on him even more than the cold.

When her cold, stiff, trembling fingers finally managed to unlock the door to their room, however, and she pushed it inside, they all stopped dead.

"We need to call General Armstrong now," Falman said, pale-faced and shaking, and he held up the phone.

* * *

" _So... what exactly is the problem?"_

"The _problem?"_ Roy hissed, glaring at the phone in disbelief. "We just explained it to you!"

" _All I heard were a few flimsy excuses for why you can't accomplish your mission, Mustang."_

It took an amazing exercise in self restraint to not just blow up the phone. "Are you out of your mind?!" he half-shouted. "The Drachmans planned this from the start! They said they have proof of their spy's innocence! They have _proof_ Gorbachev didn't do it, Armstrong! They said that all they have to do now is _wait,_ and _catch them in the act._ Them being _us,_ General! They _want_ us to arrest him! Are you suggesting we just ignore what he heard and proceed as planned?!"

She actually laughed at him, a coldly amused sound that screamed her arrogance. _"I expect you to not fall apart at this sham of a conspiracy and figure things out. I still want this spy, and so does Fuhrer Grumman. So far you seem to be outsmarting them quite handily. I don't see any reason why you can't continue with that, pick up Gorbachev, and sneak your slimy way back here before the Drachmans are any the wiser."_

Roy stared at the phone, completely shocked. He knew Armstrong was brutal, had always known that, but _this..._ the risks were insane. _"_ We have no idea what the Drachmans are planning!" he gasped at last, waving his hand dramatically as if she could see him. "We don't know what will go wrong if we fail, so just proceeding is-"

" _So don't fail."_

"General!"

Armstrong sighed raspily at him; he swore he could hear her swords clinking together in the background. _"Are you proposing we let this all go unanswered for? Just walk away and ignore the fact that Drachma is actively trying to bait and harm our military?"_

Roy cursed. "...No, but all the same, it would be safer for us to return now and-"

" _No. You're not returning without that spy, Mustang. If you get back without him, Drachma will know we've found out their plan."_

"But we _haven't!"_ he snapped, losing more and more of his patience with every second. "We don't even know what they're planning! Damn it, General, at least send us backup!"

Armstrong, however, just laughed at him again. _"Are you implying have a larger force would make it easier to sneak past the Drachmans? If so, that makes you even more of a pathetic coward than I've always known you were, Mustang."_

Unbelievable. "General-"

" _You're not endangering my men, not when there's absolutely no point in it,"_ she cut in again, her voice like steel. _"A larger force would make your job harder. Therefore, your request for backup is denied, as well as your request to return to Amestris without your target. And WHEN you return with Gorbachev, I expect you to have an additional report prepared on whatever the Drachmans are planning. Understood?"_

"B- but..."

" _I said understood, General?!"_

"...Yes, sir," he muttered through clenched teeth, fists shaking in barely contained rage.

" _Good,"_ Armstrong said, and he could hear her satisfaction radiating through every word she said. _"I don't like Drachma thinking they can take advantage of us like this. So you'd best put them in their place, Mustang, because I will not be happy if I have to come up there myself and do it for you."_

Then she hung up, and left Roy and all his staff sitting there in abject disbelief and horror.

"...Well," Havoc managed weakly at last, shoulders slumped, "that went well."

Roy slammed the phone down himself, his cold fingers clenched and shaking around the receiver. He rose stiffly to his feet, barely containing himself from kicking at the bed frame for good measure, and stalked away, jaw clenched and teeth gritted together. That heartless, bloodthirsty, arrogant, _brute_ of a woman. That out of her mind _idiot._ "This is unacceptable," he snarled, pointing violently at the phone as if it was somehow responsible for this. "We know the Drachmans planned this from the very start- and she still thinks it wise for us to just stay here and walk straight into their trap! Won't let us pull back like it's some damn kind of ego trip for her!"

"B- Boss..."

He cursed under his breath again, gloveless fingers fidgeting still to snap. At last he turned away, facing the window and bowing his head, tense. His staff all remained silent; he could feel their eyes weighing on his back, and he cursed again. If it had been just him here, that was one thing. But his men, too? _No._

And the thing was, he knew if Armstrong had been in his place, nothing would be different. She valued the mission over her men's lives- over her own life. She wasn't a hypocrite. A stone cold bitch, perhaps, but she wasn't a hypocrite. She would stay in Drachma and keep trying to win, regardless of the danger it put her men in, simply because that was the way of the cold north and she, more than anyone else, embodied everything harsh and unforgiving about this world to her core.

Well, that was all well and good for her.

Roy, however, had no interest dying in a pointless battle in a snow-locked wasteland.

And he had _absolutely_ no interest in his men doing the same because Olivier Armstrong was out of her mind.

At last, he cleared his throat and spoke.

"The risks she is taking are unacceptable," he said, voice flat. "We will stay in Drachma- for now. But the _second_ things get too dangerous, you're all ordered to pull back and retreat to Amestris. This is a direct order from your superior officer. You're unaware of anything General Armstrong has or has not said; I am responsible for every action you take on this mission."

Breda swore at him. "That's insubordination, Boss."

"Yes. On my part, and my part alone."

"She'll court martial you!"

"I'd like to see her try," he sneered, fists clenching again.

"Mustang-"

"No," he snapped, turning back around to face his shocked staff. "It is unacceptable that she is putting you at risk, and I will not have you getting killed in Drachma because I wouldn't stand up to an incorrect, foolish order. Let her court martial me for cowardice, insubordination- whatever. Let her come after my commission if she wants. I'm not going to stand for any of you getting hurt or killed due to her recklessness, and that's final."

Or, it should've been final.

But just looking at his staff's faces- mindlessly determined, utterly confident, completely unsurprised, all of them- he knew that that was not the case.

And sure enough, rather than agree, like good soldiers should, they all shook their heads together as one united force, and chorused, "No, sir," in unanimous rejection.

His hands clenched again.

"This is not a request," he snarled through clenched teeth. "This is an order. You will retreat and let me handle it, and Armstrong, if things go badly. That is an order."

Yet once again, they all just shook their heads.

"You can not disobey a direct order!" he shouted, but his men looked completely untouched by the roar.

"So court martial us," Havoc chuckled, shrugging.

Hawkeye finally spoke up, raising a bemused eyebrow at him, her features written in ice that would not give. "We're following you, sir. No matter where you go." Her eyes watched him carefully, lit with a sharp, painful sort of light that seemed to say _You should know that by now, General,_ and he stood there limply, numb and furious.

When he didn't say anything, Breda cleared his throat, grinning unabashedly. And rather than give in to his unsaid, furious demands like a good soldier, he turned back to the others, like an amazing one, and he said, "Now that that's cleared up, let's get to planning. I'd like to make it so these bastards don't even have any idea what hit them."

And, that said, his staff all immediately threw themselves into strategic planning without a second thought towards retreating.

Leaving Roy standing alone by the window, his eyes wide, unsure of whether or not to be touched or enraged.

Damn it, his men were going to get themselves killed one day because of shit like this.

He breathed out slowly for a moment, closing his eyes and controlling himself. They were right, in a way. He was overreacting now, too worried that they were going to end up hurt when they were all competent, worthy soldiers not about to go down without a fight. In all likelihood, they could still pull this off. They would have to be careful and perfect, plan every move to the last detail- but this could still work.

However, if things _did,_ somehow, end up going badly...

He looked around at them all. His men. His loyal, selfless team that had given up and risked everything to fight by his side, and would sooner face bullets and die next to him than leave him fighting alone to survive and fight another day themselves. _His_ men.

_No matter what happens, I'm getting you all home alive,_ he swore to himself, heart thudding painfully in his chest. _Even if it takes my career or my death, I will get you out of here._

_I promise._

Carefully, Roy exhaled, then moved to join his men in their work.

* * *

**After**

**February 25th, 1918**

" _Hey!_ Leave him alone!"

One of the guards that had proven most adept at turning a blind eye and feigning an inability to speak Amestrian gave Jean an uninterested look- amusement just barely hidden behind his flat stare. "He broke the rules," he intoned, sounding almost bored, but Jean could hear the smirk under the words all the same. "No breaks."

Jean violently bit his lip, gnawing so hard to stop himself from shouting he broke the skin and red started to drip down his chin. "He didn't break any fucking _rule,"_ he hissed under his breath, because any further words would only make things worse. Breda's cold hand clenched on his shoulder, trying to stop him from interfering, and it took all of his self control not to furiously shrug it off.

And while he seethed, and beside him, Breda shook with barely restrained rage, Fuery covered his head and tried not to get beaten to death by the swarm of Drachma guards standing over him.

This time, the imagined slight had been the young lieutenant taking a break from purposeless, draining ditch digging. In reality, all that had happened was the shovel had slipped from his blistered, bruised hands. It had been an innocent slip up, one Jean had seen five other Drachman inmates fall to just this morning- but, in the eyes of their captors, nothing they did was innocent.

They'd descended on him like vultures, and beat him like schoolyard bullies on the playground.

And the worst part of it was, this was not the first time- nor would it be the last.

Jean clenched his fists, flinching away and squeezing his eyes shut when the lieutenant curled even tighter, crying out from the vicious kick to his chest. Two days ago, it had been for "stealing food". The day before that, "insubordination". Soon, he was sure, the Drachmans would give up making excuses, and just punish him for no reason at all.

"I can't take this," he hissed through gritted teeth, trembling in just barely restrained fury. He forced his head away from the sight, digging his feet into the freezing snow and wishing with all his heart for just those damn _sounds_ Fuery was making to stop. "Heymans, I... I can't take this much longer."

The hand on his shoulder gripped even tighter, but through his sleeve, Jean could feel just how much his comrade was shaking, too.

"For Mustang," he whispered back. "We keep going for Mustang."

And that was all that was needed to be said.

This violence, too, was yet another attack against them as Mustang's men. The Drachman soldiers had looked at their team, and they'd all identified Fuery as the weak link- the youngest, the smallest, the _softest_. And they'd gone after him with a vengeance that was sickening.

But not to break Fuery, no.

To break _them._

Jean could see it even now, in the way the guards were subtly watching him and Breda, paying no attention to the beaten lieutenant on the ground but instead casting eyes at _them-_ waiting. Just watching them and waiting for either one of them to snap and fight back.

Because it would've been unbearably easier to take Fuery's place, than it was to stand here helplessly and do nothing.

And this, of course, was what the Drachmans wanted. No- needed.

They needed one of them to break and fight back.

"We can't," Breda whispered by his side again, his fingers clenching so tightly on his shoulder the fingernails drew blood. "Mustang..."

His voice trembled then, belying his struggle; Breda suddenly no longer spoke to keep him still but instead to hold himself back, the innate, horrible helplessness of it all holding him hostage. Jean let him cling to his shoulder, giving desperately needed support instead of taking it. His jaw tightened. "Mustang," he agreed, and it was all that needed to be said.

The pair of them stood there, stone-faced, unresponsive to the other inmates' stares, the soldiers' goading, or Fuery's muffled shouts.

And at last, when the reaction they sought did not come, the Drachmans had to give up before they killed him.

Azarov gave the signal to fall back, stepping back to leave Fuery bleeding and shivering in a snowdrift, his nose bruised and broken with crimson streaming to stain the ground below him. The lieutenant curled up even tighter and hugged himself miserably, one arm wrapped protectively over his head- but thank god, Azarov was finished with him.

For today.

The soldier drew back with a black scowl, folding his arms with a huff in the freezing wind. He glared around at them all, gaze lingering on where Jean and Breda still stood, stubborn and silent and dark eyes burning like fire.

" _Pindos,"_ he spat- and oh, _that slur,_ Jean knew- and then, with one last vicious kick, turned his back and left Fuery in the snow.

The moment he could, Jean ripped out from under Breda's restraining hand and sprinted forward, slipping over the snow to fall to his knees beside Fuery, Breda joining him a second later. He swore softly, looking over steadily forming bruises with a sympathetic wince. "Hey, you okay?" he asked, voice shaking as he clumped together a bit of snow in his bare, freezing hands, making a sort of icepack. "Kain?"

The lieutenant nodded shakily, still covering his face with one hand. After being given several moments to collect himself, he very tentatively started to push himself upright, shaking violently. His trembling fingers finally strayed away from his face- and at what they revealed, Jean abruptly reeled back, sickened.

His glasses had been shattered.

"K-Kain..."

"Your eyes...!"

They'd been shattered- and the glass pieces had laid into his face to draw cuts directly over his eyes.

Fuery didn't look at them, just feeling tenderly around his eyes into the gouges and shallow wounds, some of which had come perilously close to blinding him. He still might've been, Jean thought, briefly terrified. When the lieutenant finally opened his eyes, blood trailed thickly down from one, crimson tears welling in his eye, and his gaze was vaguely unfocused- but he couldn't tell if that was from blindness or just the lack of glasses.

"T-think m-m-my eyes are ok-k-kay," he stammered in a strained voice through chattering teeth, still trailing the cuts. "Y-yeah... they're not cut, I d-don't think..."

"Are you sure?" Breda pressed urgently, hand dropping to his shoulder as the young lieutenant swayed, still pressing his hands to his eyes. "Come on, move your hand down, let us see."

It took Jean having to tug gently at his arm, however, to get to be able to see the damage. He winced when he did; while shallow, the cuts were numerous and far too close to his eyes for comfort. He kept squinting, too, trying to clear the blood filling the left one, but to no avail. It was gruesome and horrible, and with each time he blinked a little whine of pain issued from his throat like a beaten dog.

God...

"Shit." Jean carefully ripped off the cuff of his sleeve, soaking it in some of the melted snow in his fist, doing what little he could to clean it before moving forward to bind it around the eye. "Let's just cover this for now..." He tried hard to keep the panic out of his voice, but in his mind- _oh,_ this wasn't good. Even if they'd been in Central they'd be trying to hustle him to a hospital, but like this...

Fuery, however, simply moved away from his shaking hands, tightening the knot with his own only barely steady grip. "It's fine," he assured, smiling tightly. "Was h-hazed way worse than this in b-basic tr-tr-training..."

The attempt at calm was almost heartbreaking, his eye and nose still bleeding, face swelling from a brutal, undeserved assault. Jean stared at him for a moment, struck, then just forced himself to close his eyes, breathing deeply in the chilly air.

He was going to kill Azarov.

_Kill_ him.

The harsh clanging of a bell rung out, punctuated by shouted commands in Drachman. Jean jumped, thinking at first the soldiers were coming for them, Fuery, again- but all the other inmates rose, too, and after a moment Fuery pushed at their hands, shaking his head. "A blizzard's c-coming in," he stammered, shivering in the blustery wind. "They're telling us t-t-to go b-back inside... t-t-too d-dangerous..."

Jean sighed in relief. Thank god; the first good news in weeks. "I'm shocked they're not l-leaving us to freeze to d-death," he snapped, rubbing his arms vigorously before helping Breda in getting Fuery to his feet. The lieutenant oriented himself unsurely, looking only vaguely in the right direction, and he grimaced, biting his tongue against the hot rise of fury that was so violent he wanted to scream.

"It's not for our s-sake," Breda muttered, sounding just as quietly furious as he was. "They just d-don't want their g-g-guards to freeze..."

Jean cursed under his breath again and did not reply.

With them having to help guide Fuery, they quickly lagged behind, stumbling through the building snow and among the last to enter the prisoner barracks. When they finally made it inside, it took Jean a moment to turn towards the commotion, realizing something more was going on than relief at being given an early respite. He caught the word for Amestrian a few times, but it was never directed at them, and he frowned, straining to see through the crowd. Had another Amestrian soldier been captured?! But there weren't supposed to be any backup teams coming for them! If Hawkeye had succeeded, there _wouldn't_ be...

His heart squeezing anxiously, Jean moved faster, tugging his comrades along as he wormed his way closer to the tiny section they'd sequestered as their own. Upon finally breaking through, however, he froze.

It was Falman.

Jean stood rooted to the spot, so shocked he almost let Fuery's arm drop.

The warrant officer was curled on his side, only half sitting upright against the cold wall, his head tucked against his chest. It had been weeks since they'd last seen him and the shock of him suddenly being shoved before them once again was almost too much to take; he just stood there and stared in disbelief. "F... Falman!" he gasped, eyes wide. He stumbled forward with an outstretched hand, still trembling from the cold but now also with relief. "You're all right!"

Falman raised his head a little, blinking at them with bleary, unfocused eyes that were the first sign that something was wrong. "Oh," he said vaguely after a moment, looking around at them, then relaxed minutely, leaning his head back against the wall. He wilted for a second, seeming almost weak with relief, then reclaimed his previously stoic facade and slowly, weakly, pushed himself to sit upright for a salute.

A left-handed salute.

The breath left him like he'd just been kicked in the chest.

"It's good to see you again," Falman greeted weakly, grey-faced and his voice thin.

His right arm was gone.

* * *

They didn't speak much, after that.

They huddled together that night, freezing, Jean and Breda doing what little they could do for their injured comrades- and, meanwhile, also trying not to snap, go hunt down Azarov, and slaughter him.

Fuery was trying to hide it, but he was clearly in some amount of pain, not just from the beating but especially due to his eye. He hadn't tried pushing aside the makeshift bandage to see with it yet, and that in and of itself told him Jean bad it was. He'd flinch whenever they touched him but remained stoically silent, insisting without words that he was well- and in this nightmare, Jean simply didn't have the heart to make him tell them otherwise.

And Falman...

God.

He was obviously ill. Too sick and weak to even hide his own condition. He clearly should've still been in a hospital; as it was he could barely stand and was in so much pain he'd nearly thrown up twice. Every move he made aggravated the recent stump nearly to the point of tears. He had clearly spent much of the last several weeks very sick and couldn't be called anything close to well now, shivering weakly even as the rest of the team piled their meager blankets on top of him and tried their very hardest to keep him warm.

As ill as he was. As shaken and silent as Fuery was. As tired, beaten, and cold as they all were... in shock from Falman's return and still disbelieving even now that no end remained in sight...

It was in that freezing, black, and miserable night, one arm around Fuery and the other carefully gripping Falman to keep them warm, that for the first time, Jean found himself grateful Mustang wasn't with them.

If the general could've seen them now...

Nothing terrified Jean more than the thought of what the look on Mustang's face would be when he realized what had been done to his men.

He'd burn this entire prison to the ground, Azarov and his men inside it, and he'd enjoy it.

Azarov didn't scare him. The thought of their commander, however, walking straight into a bloody inferno of his own hand, that _look_ in his eye that had been so terrible it had once had Hawkeye drawing her weapon and telling him she'd shoot before she'd let him fall deeper into a hell of his own design...

Suddenly, he wasn't looking forward to being reunited with Mustang after all.

* * *

It took late into the next day for the whiteout conditions to fade, and the blizzard to calm down into just a blustery wind and light dusting of snow. The other Drachmans, relieved for their own respite, left them alone for most of that time, which Jean found himself quietly relieved by- but not for the break in the torment.

Given how he felt right now, he really wasn't sure that he'd be able to restrain himself if anyone went after his comrades, and he knew he couldn't guarantee a fist fight wouldn't end in the fucking Nikolai dead on the floor with a broken neck.

But winter was already giving up into a very early, still frostbitten spring. The blizzard couldn't last forever, and when it did give out and the soldiers called them out to work again, it only took a half second's exchanged gaze with Breda to confirm what was going to happen.

"No," he said succinctly, and when Falman tried to rise, just planted a firm hand on his shoulder and pushed him right back down.

Breda silently folded his arms, standing in front of the warrant officer in a clear display of a united front, and Fuery, picking up almost instantly, joined them.

Falman stared at them, hazily at first, but then shook his head, trying to push them back. It amounted to little more than a weak wave of his hand in the air. "W-what are you doing?"

"I think that's what we should be asking you," Breda returned calmly. "Don't be an idiot, Vato."

Falman blinked, opening his mouth to protest- then abruptly reeled back, clapping a hand over it and heaving. His previously pallid complexion went almost bone-white and it took Fuery swooping in to stop him from faceplanting; next to him, Breda whispered a curse, and Jean's fists clenched, his insides aching. "This is what we mean," he murmured firmly, though only when it the man had regained enough of himself to hear the words. "You're not well enough to. If you try and go out there, you will kill yourself."

Jean honestly didn't think that was an exaggeration.

Falman, however, still tried to protest, obviously sick at heart at the idea of being separated and left behind again. "N-no," he stammered, waving a trembling hand, his _only_ hand anymore, "I can do it- I- I just-"

"Warrant Officer Falman, this is a direct order. Stay behind."

Falman flinched again, but Breda, rather than let him struggle a third time, cut him off before the words even began.

"General Mustang's last command to me was to see you all out of this alive. And so help me, I intend to, Warrant Officer." He broke off for a moment, drawing himself up to his full height, one steady hand pointing for the soldier to stay on the bed. "You will stay there. Rest and recover. Keep your head down. And above all else, you will stay alive, no matter _what_ it takes. Because at the end of all of this, I am not going to look Mustang in the eye and tell him I let any single one of you die."

And, with the iron, frigid command still weighing on the air with a ring of solid finality, Breda promptly turned his back and marched away without waiting a response.

Jean was the only one to catch the anguished look in his eyes before he made it away from them.

He remained still for a moment, torn, and held his place as he gave Falman a look, trying to say without words that as much as he couldn't stand it to let them go on alone, this needed to be done and they'd never think less of him for it. "We'll be back tonight," he promised quietly, rubbing his shoulder, and then, he once again went against his own instincts to stay and turned his back as well, moving to catch up with Breda's quickly retreating form.

Here, he didn't say anything to his fellow captain, simply because there was nothing he could say.

Fuery rejoined them a few seconds later, jogging up nervously behind them. Jean could tell he wasn't sure how to react, could see the hesitation in his one bruised eye, and he just gave a long, very tired sigh, and a silent shake of his head.

Fuery bit his lip and looked away.

"...The Drachmans aren't going to be happy about this, sir," he hesitantly ventured in a weak whisper, pale and nervous. "They might not let him stay be-"

" _Fuck the Drachmans."_

The venom in his best friend's voice was so potent and unexpected Jean almost flinched. Fuery actually did.

A sidelong glance was all he needed to see that the ice he'd ordered Falman with was gone- surely shattered the second he'd turned his back- and in it's place was a livid fire.

Jean swallowed, hard.

"Easy, Heymans," he muttered, almost too soft even for Fuery to hear, and placed a firm, restraining hand on his shoulder. _Come on, don't do this._

_Don't give in now._

His friend closed his eyes tightly for a moment, jaw clenching with effort of restraint. He bowed his head, shoulders so stiff and tense he looked about to snap. "...They cut off his _arm,_ Jean," he whispered finally. His voice shook as badly as his fists.

And, as furious, horrified, and utterly _helpless_ as he was, Jean was unable to do a single thing more than just nod back, his throat tight. "I know."

After how many times Breda had kept him in check over these past weeks, it was only right that he do the same for him now.

With the stakes that faced them now, Breda was able to recover himself almost painfully quickly, the stiff tension forcibly leaving him as he continued his military march towards the door- eyes blank and cold now, so cold the stare was almost dead. "The Drachmans will be forced to let him stay behind," he intoned monotonously, as if nothing had happened at all. "If he dies because of how they've treated him, that's a violation of our prisoner of war treaty. It's provocation. And, Azarov knows Amestris is coming for us... he can't afford to do anything risky, because it'll reach the Fuhrer's ears and he knows it."

It was silent then, oppressive quiet held simply by the fact that Breda would take no more objections. Jean, for his part, shared an encouraging glance back at Fuery, squaring his shoulders, and tried very hard to force a grim smile.

Just as Fuery had predicted, the moment they reached the door they were stopped, the Drachman guards barring their path with smug smirks and cruel eyes, knowing stares that told Jean that they all _knew._ Stares that asked, where's your friend? Where's your comrade? The one who's so ill he can't even stand, who'll die if he goes out there, whose arm we took? Where is he, where is he?

Don't you want to fight back?

Jean was sure that if he hadn't kept his hand on Breda's shoulder, his fellow captain would've lost it and socked one in the face.

"Fuery," Breda said stiffly instead. That was all he said, but even that little was an order. They all heard it, and without hesitation, Fuery answered it.

He stepped to the front, struggling to explain in Drachman. The guards' smirks grew and they laughed openly at him, feigning ignorance and the inability to understand, and Jean resisted the urge to curse even as Fuery's face contorted with struggle, the young lieutenant shaking under the pressure and fighting to find the words. For a moment, he wished they'd drug Falman along after all, just so he could translate. The Drachmans had picked up from the beginning that Fuery, the only translator they had, could barely speak the language, and they took great pleasure in taunting him for it, pretending not to understand even when Jean was sure they did. They'd drag it out for as long as possible, striving to make him feel as stupid and helpless as they could.

If Breda wanted to punch them for Falman's sake, then Jean now desperately wished to join in, and hit that most smug one's smirk right off his face, for Fuery's.

At last, they had to quit pretending, and one of the guards replied in a quick flurry of Drachman. Fuery winced, humiliation flickering through his eye when he couldn't catch all of the unfairly fast words, and it took him several seconds to sift through the mess to find the meaning.

"They're telling us he can't stay behind," he translated morosely, his gaze downcast and miserable. "He has to do his share..."

Breda stepped forward, folding his arms to become an impenetrable wall between the Drachmans and proceeding back to grab Falman. "I'll do his on top of mine."

Havoc moved to stand next to him as well, joining him without even the slightest hesitation. "And me with him."

The Drachman guards glared even before Fuery had translated for them.

"Lieutenant Fuery," Breda said calmly, his voice like ice, "please remind the Drachmans that if any one of us dies in their custody, a death that would've otherwise been preventable, it can be considered provocation for war."

It was the only advantage that they still had.

But it was a powerful one, so powerful that it was all they needed.

When the Drachmans flinched, glancing uneasily at each other, guarded and wary, Breda nodded stiffly, back straight and voice cold. "That's what I thought," he snapped, and with that, began to lead the way outside again.

Jean and Fuery trailed behind him without a look back, and the Drachmans were forced to let them go on unchallenged.

* * *

That day was, by far, the worst they'd had in the prison camp.

The guards went after Fuery violently twice, both times when he hadn't been able to see where he was going and had almost walked into them. They blatantly turned their backs when the Drachman gang went after Jean and Breda, shutting their eyes and closing their ears, only regaining interest after the gang had left them bleeding in the snow and approaching them to berate them for lazing off and taking a break. And because they truly had no other choice, the three of them had to keep their mouths shut and take it.

And that night, long after the sun had set, and the temperatures dropped well below freezing once again, when the other inmates had finished their day's work and were headed out of the wind to pass out for what few hours they could, Jean and Breda were left outside, to do the work that Falman could not.

At first, when the other inmates trailed off into the darkness, Fuery tried to stay with them. Breda, however, wouldn't hear of it.

"I don't want Falman alone with those bastards," he snapped, shaking his head when the shaken, freezing, still wounded lieutenant tried to insist. "Jean and I will be back in a couple of hours. Until then I want you to watch him. He's too ill to protect himself right now and you can be damn sure the guards aren't going to do it for him."

"But- but sir-" Fuery tried weakly.

"Watch Falman. That's an order."

Fuery hesitated a moment longer, touching a fresh bruise on his cheek, his one exposed eye gleaming with regret in the darkness. But when Breda didn't waver, he bowed his head, one hand raising in a salute that was sick at heart.

"Yes, sir."

They waited until he'd vanished into the shadows, a bruised, pale shroud that was at his limit, and then, without another word, they turned back to frozen ground before them.

Freezing, starving, and tired to the bone. Completely without strength, and both of them wanting nothing more than the privilege of going inside out of the dark, freezing wind and dropping facedown to pass out until morning.

And yet, here they still were.

After several unbearably cold, depressed moments, Jean forestalled another shiver in the face of the building gale and leaned down to gingerly grasp his shovel again. "Heymans?" he asked weakly, voice so small it was almost lost in the cold.

"...Yeah?"

Jean hesitated, his body aching down to his very spine. "...After he finds out everything that's happened... Mustang's going to kill them."

His fellow captain let out a heavy sigh, bowing his head and shivering himself. "I know," he said after a long pause, drawing his arms around himself. His voice, too, was weak with resigned defeat.

Then he, too, went back to work, and with that, they were left in the black, frigid night, two lonely figures breaking their backs over frozen snow. Their only company were four grinning representatives of Azarov's, each one just waiting for the excuse to fire.

* * *

**Roy**

Well.

He was reasonably sure his arm was broken.

Being stomped on, of course, was not the best way to keep all his bones intact. When he was being stomped on by a vengeful, shouting, brute of a man, and he was trapped, unable to so much as move his arm even an inch out of the way, it was probably just inevitable that something would end up in pieces. He was lucky that it was just his arm.

He was also reasonably sure the position the alchemy shackles pinned it in wasn't the optimum one for healing, because, _ow._

Seriously. _Ow._

The agonizing, deep pain of bones grating together was head-spinning in its exquisiteness. It stole his breath and left him nauseous to the point of illness. His shoulders both ached, throbbing from the constrained position of his hands and stinging with the little sharp pain of cigarette burns. His head rang. As per usual. He was also pretty sure his jaw was broken.

Only so many times it could take being hit by a metal fist, for daring to grace Drachman courtesy with his own country's tongue, after all.

Roy didn't want to admit it. And he wouldn't, of course, not in front of Azarov and the others. In front of them he was still doing well, just relaxing like his vacations usually ended up with him being beat down into the floor without break for mercy or rest. But now... now, in what at least _felt_ like the dead of night, when he shivered and tossed and turned from the pain and hunger and was too freezing to sleep- now, when he could risk letting his mind wander...

Fine.

He could admit it now.

He was losing spirit.

He hadn't seen his team in weeks- had only his own belief in them to rely on to be sure they were still alive. Fuck, he hadn't seen _anything_ in weeks- and that was another thing...

As it turned out, just because he'd been blind before didn't make being blind now a walk in the park.

Before, he'd been mostly in shock, yes, but it had been so much easier to face, surrounded by his team at all times and the realization that they'd sooner be shot dead than let any danger come to him. Not that he'd been scared, back then- fuck that, he wasn't a coward- but he'd at last been able to slowly start trying to navigate a new, entirely black world solely because of the knowledge that his men would be there to catch him when he fell.

Now, instead of his enemies being unseen walls and doorframes and sprained ankles as he tripped up the stairs- yes, _up_ the stairs- it was fists that came out of nowhere, blows he only realized when they knocked and slammed into him. Now there was danger lurking in every unknown inch around him.

Now, he was alone.

And it was only at times like now, cold and tired and completely _alone,_ that he could start to admit to himself that Azarov was pushing him to his limit.

So it was here, in the dead of night, caught awake by agony and blindness and gnawing hunger and the unbelievable _cold_ that bit down into him so deep it felt as if his blood had become ice, that he found himself on the very edge of breaking.

It'd be so easy... he didn't even have to snap. He didn't even have to kill Azarov. He could just warm up the air around him... just a little bit, that was all he wanted... just enough so his teeth would stop chattering, just enough so he could _sleep..._

Or just a spark or two! Just a spark and the blindfold would be gone! Never mind that the son of a bitch kept soaking his gloves in goddamn vodka that reeked... he could surely control it- just a spark was all he needed- and-!

It'd be so _easy!_

If he could just...

Roy gasped, jerking his hands apart just as his arrays started to awaken.

He caught onto the pain that sang through his arm because of it, gritting his teeth and bearing it, relishing it, even, holding it close and embracing it as his punishment for so nearly slipping. He couldn't. He couldn't.

He _couldn't._

If he was being watched...

If he somehow failed and couldn't control it...

If, if, _if..._

Roy swallowed hard, bowing his head.

He couldn't.

Emotion welled in his throat, and he swallowed at it again, shoulders shaking. He wanted it. God. _God,_ he wanted it so much... could almost taste the smoke on the air... could almost feel the sizzling, blissful heat of his own sparks raining onto down onto his bare skin, and...

_Fuck,_ he was so cold...

_Stop it. Just, stop it._

What was _wrong_ with him? His men were suffering right now- suffering simply because he'd _asked_ them to. God knew what those Drachmans were doing to them- and then, how did he repay them? Fantasize about throwing away all their hard work and sacrifices for the sake of little fucking bit of warmth?!

_You can't, Mustang._

_So just stop it._

Many years ago, before the Promised Day, before the homunculi, when he'd just been an up and coming colonel in the east and nearly too ambitious for his own good, Roy had started having nightmares of his youngest subordinate. He'd wake up in a cold sweat, bolting upright, mind haunted with the image of a twelve year old boy marching towards the east, a rifle too big for his child's hands slung over his shoulder, the dark blue of his uniform splotched with black blood.

Blood that wasn't his.

On one of his hands, his one flesh and blood hand, gleamed a ring so red it blinded him.

His eyes had been dark and dead, a vacant, hollow stare that Roy had seen in his own eyes for months and sometimes years after Ishval. A murderer's eyes. He'd stood there a child, dragged into the bloodthirsty military by Roy himself, but that child had killed himself in war, and the person who'd marched back to him- if he came back at all; sometimes he died, blown apart in an explosion or shot in the head or beaten to death in the oceanic sands- but oh, when he came back...

The person standing there had not been Ed.

That had been one of his greatest fears, back then.

And so, he let it become one of his greatest fears now.

On nights like this, so cold he wanted to die and so tired and so hurt and so close to giving up he could taste it, he remembered that. He remembered his men out there fighting for him, and he remembered the price if he should fail. He clung to it with all his strength, and he reminded himself of what he was fighting for.

It was Ed and his men that let him believe that he could do this.

He _had_ to do this.

Roy curled up tighter against his corner, clung to that image of them all, and shut his eyes.

_I have..._

_to do this..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Before**

**January 28, 1918**

Their new plan, of course, ended up being the old one.

Bait the Drachmans.

Wonder about the city during the day, pretending to be lost and in search of their spy. Stow themselves away in their room at night and listen to everything Falman had to report from the day's events. When it got to the point it would be suspicious to leave Falman behind any longer, he switched spots with Fuery; while Fuery's Drachman wasn't one hundred percent, it was better than nothing.

And, as such, they waited for their enemy to make their next move.

It was currently on the third day of their plan, lingering inside what Roy figured to be a market of some kind just for the warmth and shelter from the wind. The Drachmans had been dropping progressively more and more obvious hints as to Gorbachev's location, clearly trying to draw them out to arrest the spy; it was getting almost painful to ignore them. But one thing was for sure: if the Drachmans wanted them to arrest Gorbachev, for whatever unknown reason, then that was the one thing that they could not do.

"All right," he declared reluctantly, tugging on his scarf to wrap it more firmly around his neck. Break over. Back into cold hell. "We're heading west from here; I think I saw something that way, just before we went inside."

His men all gave him very well disguised, highly amused looks. They, of course, just like him, had all picked up the signs telling them to head due east.

He hoped the Drachmans were groaning and hating their jobs right about now.

Roy led the way back into the cold, hugging himself against the chill as he stood in the street, glancing around the blinding snow. He sighed again. If only they could be pulling this wild goose chase in sunny Creta...

Well, nothing for it but to go straight in.

Just as Roy turned off to begin leading off to the west, Hawkeye moved up to his side, grasping his arm firmly- _somehow_ , despite his three layers of coats and her thick gloves. "Sir," she pressed, her voice tense, "there appears to be someone approaching us in a vehicle."

Frowning, Roy turned to squint down the street. It was hard to see, looking right into the sun and the blinding glare of the snow; it didn't help matters that his eyes had always been more sensitive and easily overwhelmed after the Promised Day- but she was right, that was the sound of a car...

Hawkeye realized it before anyone else.

"That's the car Lieutenant Fuery stole this morning, sir."

His eyes widened.

Oh, no.

Fuery's number one role today was to _stay out of sight_ while he eavesdropped on the Drachmans. _Stay out of sight._

So if he was approaching them, that meant-

" _EVERYONE!"_ he bellowed, tearing away from Hawkeye's hand and turning to sprint back inside. _"GET-"_

Before he could finish the command, the bullets started.

First the sharp crack of gunfire split over the freezing air in direct conjunction with a pained shout, and Falman collapsed in front of him, going rigid as he dropped and cried out. _Damn it-_ Roy gasped, reaching out to grab him by the arm even as he turned again, pointing violently down the street towards Fuery's approach. _"Get down! Everyone GET DOWN and-"_

" _GENERAL!"_

Hawkeye collided with him in time with another gunshot, bringing him to the ground with all the force of a bull. He landed with a mighty _whump_ in the snow, Hawkeye on top of him, his grip on Falman's sleeve dragging the warrant officer down beside him. Damn it, where the hell were the Drachmans firing from?! There wasn't time, there was no cover close-

" _Get close to me!"_ he screamed, slamming his hands together over his fallen soldier. Instantly smoke billowed outwards, blisteringly hot but a huge, expansive cloud that perfectly obscured them from the Drachmans until Fuery could reach them.

"Who e-else is h-h-hit?!" he coughed, burying his face in his elbow. "Hang in there, Vato!"

Havoc and Breda chorused back, "I'm good, sir," and he felt Hawkeye move off his chest, his major saying nothing but keeping one hand pressing down on his shoulder as if to keep him close to the ground. Good, so Hawkeye was all right, as well.

The Drachmans had stopped firing, though Roy gave another clap and smoke explosion for good measure before the roar of an engine cut off into the screech on asphalt, signaling Fuery's arrival. With Havoc's help, they managed to lift Falman up and carry him to the van, his subordinate gasping and writhing with every nudge or jostle, little strained noises of mindblown, shocked agony issuing up through clenched teeth with every breath.

"Shit," Roy cursed quietly, voice strained even to his own ears. This wasn't good. "Fuery!" he shouted, wrenching the door shut the moment Breda had thrown himself in, " _Get us out of here!"_

His lieutenant did not need to be told twice. The car swerved around immediately, so violently he was nearly tossed headfirst into the wall; rather, Roy anchored himself and swiveled to face his subordinate again. "Fuery, what the hell happened out there?!"

His youngest soldier winced, not taking his eyes off the road. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, General! The Drachmans were talking so quickly I didn't know what they were saying at first- by the time I realized they were going to fire at you it was too late!"

Roy swore under his breath, his heart racing. "Just get us out of here," he demanded, returning his attention to Falman. It looked like a wound in his arm, but by the way he was reacting it had to be a lot worse than that. "There's a chance we'll be tailed so drive as fast and crazy as you can. We need to get somewhere relatively safe as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir!"

Nodding to himself, Roy knelt back over his warrant officer, transmuting one of his coat's sleeves into a strip of bandages and thanking _god_ for the wonder that was clap alchemy while he did so. Shit, that was a _lot_ of blood- he might have to cauterize this...

"Is everyone all right?!" he barked, gut leaden with the thought of turning his flames against an ally yet again. "Headcount!"

"Present and good, sir." Breda.

"Present and pissed off, sir." Havoc.

"Present, sir!" Fuery.

Falman made a gargled sort of coughing sound that might've him been attempting at answering roll call- he almost hoped it wasn't, because if he was seriously trying to follow that order right now Roy just might have to headslap him for stupidity.

No one else spoke.

His hands only an inch away from tying the first bandage around Falman's wound, Roy froze.

His mouth went dry, his hands shook, and his world threatened to stop turning.

Requiring no more stimulus than the silence, his head jerked up.

Riza had slumped motionlessly on to her side, dropping down where she had landed after jumping into the van. Her flushed, wind-bruised cheeks were not drained of color, and she lay perfectly still, not in pain or distress-

But, finally soaking through her most outer layer of warm coats, spreading like a flower over her stomach, was a stain of blood.

His heart plummeted.

" _RIZA!"_

* * *

For a moment, Roy was twenty again, and thanking all the gods he did not believe in for her skill with a rifle, not because it kept him safe but because it kept _her_ safe, away from the front lines and hidden where none would ever find her. For a moment, he was twenty again, and cursing himself for ever even seeking out the Hawkeyes, because if not for him she would never have marched from the nest into the danger that lived under his wing. For a moment, he was twenty again, and all he wanted was to take her, take his gloves, and run home, and never set foot into that desert or the military again.

For a moment, he was thirty again, and holding her in his arms as she was dying.

But then that splitsecond instant was over, and he was not a scared boy any longer.

"Breda, _help me!"_ he barked the very instant the car careened to a stop. He let the captain lift her, immersing his hands into the sticky, soaked mass instead and holding pressure as they moved out together in an awkward sprint of a shuffle towards the nearest building. He was barely aware of Havoc and Fuery rushing in ahead of them to ensure the room was clear; all he could feel was the beat of blood against his fingers- all he saw was the unbearably limp way her head lolled, her pale face, so still...

The moment they were inside, Breda brought her to the ground, turning her onto her side so he could hold pressure to both the entry and exit sites. "Get me everything we have!" he snapped, fingers scrabbling to push up the soggy, soaked shirt. "We've got to stop this bleeding now!"

His men surrounded him in mere seconds, flocking to their wounded comrade as the heartrendingly loyal dogs that they were. Havoc was pushing one of her earlier coats under her head while Breda replaced pressure on one of the wounds, Fuery shoving a pile of makeshift bandages at him even as he turned to make more. _Shit,_ this bleeding was bad... it wasn't slowing, not at all...

Riza moaned, flinching weakly under their hands. It was a tiny thing, a croak of a noise all there was to betray suffering, but he clutched at her hand all the same, squeezing it to his chest as tight as he could. "Shh, it's okay," he promised. "We're taking care of you."

"S... sir..."

He cursed to himself weakly, mind reeling. What right did that bullet have to make her steady, rock solid voice shake like that? How _dare_ it? She was Riza Hawkeye. She commanded bullets, not the other way around! How could something as small and insignificant as that tiny metal slug reduce her to this?

But if there was one thing this decade in the military had taught him, it was how to stay in control, so all he said was, "Relax; let us help you. You're doing fine, Riza; just lie still for us."

"General..." Her eyes flickered just slightly, unbearably pained but focused beyond belief. They searched for a moment, then centered on him, piercing him to his core. "...W-were... you... hit?"

Roy gaped at her, the agonized words hitting him like a punch to the gut. Riza. _Riza._

"...No," he said at last, but his voice was strong and sure. "Of course not. ...You took it for me."

She sighed, her cold hand falling limp in his with relief. Her thumb stroked along the edge of his palm, firm and grateful, and his heart shuddered.

Suddenly she coughed, spine arcing upwards in time with a minuscule, pained cry. God, the way it ripped its way past her clenched teeth- _Riza..._ "It's okay," he pleaded, gripping her hand even tighter in his. "It's okay, Riza, come on, breathe..." He knelt down closer, inspecting the exit wound as close as he could. There was too much blood to see any detail and he wiped desperately at it with his sleeve, straining to see.

It was bad.

It was very bad.

Blood gushed from her, trailing freely not just from the entry and exit sites but from wounds inside as well, punctured holes inside her stomach. It may have been a clean shot, ripping straight through her, but on its way it had done devastating damage. His hands were already _dripping_ with her life- and still so much of it spurted outwards...

He knew, in that instant, what had to be done.

Roy drew back for a moment, stomach churning. He looked down at her spread eagled, gasping body, how she strained with agony, how she coughed and choked, how her hand was still grasping his. He looked down to her just barely open eyes- and his heart stopped there at what he saw.

She knew, too.

Before he knew what he was doing he'd fallen over her, trapping her face in his hands and running his thumbs desperately over her cheeks, pressing their foreheads together. "I'm sorry," he whispered against her mouth. "I'm sorry, Riza, I'm sorry..." His fingers twined frantically in her hair, running so violently through it the clip was ripped out and long, sunny strands splayed out over the dirty floor at her back- sunny strands that with each shaking stroke of his fingers became ruined with rotting blood. "Riza, I'm sorry..."

" _I know,"_ her lips moved, not a breath of sound coming but her lips still moved against his cheek. _"I know. I know. I know."_

_I wanted to never do this to you again._

" _I know,"_ her mouth moved again as his shaking fingers pulled through her hair and cradled her cold cheeks. _I know. It's okay. I understand. I know._

But all she said aloud was, "Do it."

_Yes, ma'am._

His men knew, and because they knew, they spared him the horrified stares and instead handed him their endless support without him breathing a single word of a command. They fell upon her with loyalty and love, Havoc pinning her arms and Breda her chest, Fuery her legs. Roy pressed his forehead to hers a moment longer, swearing vengeance and choking on heartbroken apology, but when he pulled back his eyes were hard as ice and dry, his entire being forcefully detached away into a little locked box in the back of his head where he couldn't feel a thing.

The lower half of her shirt was ripped, wadded into a blood-dripping ball, and clenched tightly between her teeth. His men held her down and waited, tense as the air was cold but as prepared and strong as he could ever ask them to be. And he knelt over her still, white gloves dyed crimson- but hands, steady.

Roy snapped his fingers, and pressed the flame to the wound.

She screamed.

God, she screamed.

High-pitched, heartrending whines of pain whimpered out from behind the gag, muffled and tortured. Even pinned down she spasmed and jerked, tremors bolting down her spine like electric shocks of agony, her head tossing and turning so violently her cheeks bashed against the stone floor and blood streaming from the new bruises. "Hold her down!" he barked, "Hold her _down!"_

But shouting left him sucking in a deep gasp the moment after, and- oh god, the smell... he could smell her stomach, her blood, her roasted flesh-

_No._

_Don't smell._

_Don't stop._

_Don't even breathe._

_Just go._

Roy seared one of the internal bleeds shut, his hands immersed in a wealth of her blood. He could barely see the wounds, or his hands at all; there was just so much blood. It washed over his grip to the point of nausea, coating his hands so sticky and slick he could barely snap. He felt the soft squish of her internal organs as he pinched a wound closed, bile rising in his throat, smelled the rancid scent of cooked meat- and she screamed again, god... such a miserable, agonized, horrified thing, an animal sound, so low and base and primitive he could not reconcile it coming from her.

She'd screamed when he burned her back. But oh, god, it was nothing like this. Not as he buried his fist in her stomach muscles and snapped, snapped, snapped inside of her. And he knew how it felt! He'd done it to himself... he _knew..._ he didn't even remember the sounds that had come from his mouth then; he'd gone deaf and blind from the pain of it, aware of only his alchemy and his blood.

He knew how much it hurt.

So he knew how much _she_ hurt.

And he still continued to hurt her...

Over...

And over...

And _over_ again.

_I'm sorry_ , the Roy Mustang locked away in the very back of his mind whispered, begging. _Riza. I'm so, so sorry._ But nothing but stern orders came from his lips; the man who burned her was as cold and unfeeling as a corpse, a detached monster that tortured her over and over again and bore her screams without so much as a flinch. She needed him, so he delivered. He delivered even as it killed him.

_I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry... I'm so, so sorry..._

By the end was finished finished, his eyes stung from the heat, Breda had had to pull away to be briefly sick over the oppressive stench of burning organ, and Riza no longer had a voice with which to scream.

An exhausted, dying croak of pain still issued from her throat as he drew his fingers down the entry wound, soothing it closed and scrawling a fresh burn scar over her beautiful skin. Another disgusting sprawl of puckered, wrinkled skin, a dark, raw red starburst that stained her body like ink. It glistened and oozed now, the smell overwhelming, and he nearly choked on it.

He could barely take lifting his horrified gaze towards her face, but when he saw it, she nearly shattered any desperate composure he'd had left.

"Riza," he breathed, crawling shakily on his hands and knees over the blood-slicked floor to drop down beside her head. He raised his hands to touch her- then froze at the sight of his gloves.

God...

Another gasp of pain came from below him again, and the horror was pushed out of his mind without further thought. He dropped his shaking hands, kneeling low over Riza and pressing his forehead to hers, feeling her shallow, unsteady breaths hot against his cheek. "It's okay, I'm finished. We're done. It's over... it's over."

Her face felt wet, and he knew it was from her tears.

Somehow, that was the one detail that sent him over the edge.

"Riza, Riza..." She bucked and gasped underneath him, crying still, little gasped, exhausted sobs of pain. Her eyelids fluttered, eyes drained and near empty with fatigue, all her strength bled and gone in what it had took for her to get through this. But she still shook and fought it, clinging on stubbornly no matter how much she was suffering.

He couldn't stand it. "Riza..." he murmured again, pulling back just enough to meet her agonized eyes. "It's okay. It's _over._ Rest... please. Please, Riza... just sleep now."

"S...ir..."

"Just sleep," he repeated, how weak and agonized her voice was sending daggers of fear and dread into his heart. "You're going to be fine, Riza."

But she kept on struggling, her hand tightening spasmodically around his. "D-don't feel..." She nearly choked again, her eyes watering with pain. "...guilty..."

Oh, no. No, no, no. She could not be saying this. "Riza, don't worry about it now! Please... _please_ , just rest..." How could her concerns now still lie with him?! She was bleeding, hurt, in agony, had just gone through the worst pain of her life- but her only focus was him. It wasn't _right._

But she still hung on, just for a miserable moment more before her strength vanished entirely and her mind betrayed her, no matter how hard she tried to be strong. "T-thank you..."

Then her face went perfectly slack, and it sagged against the floor.

Blood still stained her lips, and tears, her cheeks.

"Riza," he whispered again, his heart trying its dammdest to shatter.

His men took over for him, Havoc pulling him forcefully back just a little while they all began to see to her, keeping her safe and warm as they'd all been trained so well but with a careful tenderness that came from years of serving together. They covered her underneath a pile of coats while he sat watching, numb and shaking and shocked, now that his task was done tendrils of panic and horror leaking through in an unstoppable flood. He couldn't stop shaking... he couldn't do _anything,_ just sat there and watched, composure shattering with every second until he couldn't take it anymore.

He felt like he could still see her burns, even as his men bandaged her up like a present.

His gloves were so stiff with dried blood he couldn't move his hands.

The smell of her on him was enough that he wanted to vomit. And...

_No._

Roy breathed in carefully, tasting all the blood and smoke and burns on the air and rather than running from it, now, accepting them in all of their horror. No. _Hold yourself together, Mustang. This isn't over._

It wasn't over yet- and there were people here who still needed him.

He shut his eyes, sitting there stiffly and just breathing until his heart had stopped hammering in his chest. For his men's sake. He held perfectly still and just waited until his hands no longer felt hot; his face stifled and his hands rotted until they fell off from Riza's blood.

He just waited through the interminable minutes until he could serve those who still needed him, and then opened his eyes.

Roy looked straight towards his men, his heart not strangled by sorrow any longer but cold with brimming rage. Havoc was sitting next to Riza, watching for any signs of returned bleeding and stilling her whenever she moaned. Breda and Fuery were by Falman, unconscious and sweating on his pile of coats, doing what little they could for him and suffering for it.

His men.

His Riza.

They were _his,_ and this was what had become of them.

Roy calmly pivoted, turning firmly to stand in front of them all, gazing out into the brewing night and snowstorm. He raised one hand, then the other, stretching his fingers and watching the little flakes of dried blood crust off, bit by bit revealing his circle underneath.

At last, with hatred in his heart, he spoke.

"The moment Hawkeye and Falman can be moved, we move." His voice was like iron and rang with frigid authority, a command that was not to be disobeyed. "Our mission is now to make it home with each and every one of you alive. We make for the border immediately. Upon reaching Amestris, your priority will be to get them both medical treatment."

There was silence for a moment, broken only by his fallen soldiers' slow, raspy breathing. Then, "...and, your priority, sir?" from Havoc- but Roy could hear it in his voice that he already knew.

He looked down at his bloody gloves again, brushing his thumb and middle finger together in what could've been preparation to snap.

"I am going to find Colonel Azarov. And I am going to show him exactly what happens when you lay a hand on my subordinates."

There was a long, quiet pause.

Then a calm, subdued chorus.

"Understood, sir."

And they did.

His fingers brushed tantalizingly together again, and for the first time since Envy, Roy tasted his own flames and enjoyed it.

* * *

**After**

**March 4th, 1918**

Things were not going well.

For any of them.

Breda was truly at his limit. Jean could tell it had been coming for days, but just the look in his eyes this morning... Jean was starting to fear that if a Drachman said one wrong word to him, he'd snap. And given that the violence against them had only been increasing the longer they were here and still miraculously held out, that was not something that boded well.

It was simply that Mustang had placed him in charge. Jean was under a similar strain as his comrade, but Mustang had placed Breda in charge and not him, and so every wound their team suffered was something that weighed on Breda in a way it never would on him. But it was starting to weigh too much, and when that burden became too heavy for him to bear...

Well, Jean was just going to have to be sure to be there to stop him when it did.

And as for the rest of them...

Jean sighed, stopping briefly in his work to swipe at the sweat freezing on his forehead. He looked down at Fuery.

His eye was getting worse.

A week ago, he'd only kept it covered because it kept filling with blood every time he tried to open it. Now it was swollen, one of the cuts slowly turning an ugly sort of black that made his stomach turn. Falman had tried telling the Drachmans several times that it was infected and the lieutenant needed a doctor, but he'd gotten nowhere. In fact, he was pretty sure Falman's requests had been the reason the next time one of the guards had knocked their lieutenant around the head.

And Falman...

Jean canted his gaze over to glance surreptitiously at the warrant officer.

His health was improving, somewhat. Jean was pretty sure his condition had now been elevated from in need of bedrest to just still serious. If they'd been in Amestris, he'd likely have still been hospitalized. Losing an arm was no easy thing to go through, after all, and the delay in treatment had surely made it exponentially worse. But they weren't still in Amestris, and no matter how stringently Breda had ordered him to take it easy, the moment he'd deemed himself capable, Falman had somehow dragged himself out of bed and followed them out into the snow.

As Jean watched, he went at a snail's pace. He'd barely managed a quarter of they'd done. Jean and Breda would surely still have to stay after light's out and finish what he was too weak to. He shivered violently from the cold and weakness, and had already stopped to throw up twice.

So, in summation:

Things were not going well at all.

And as for his part...

Jean sighed, rubbing his aching back, and tried to convince himself the trembling in his legs was only from the cold as he went to pick up the shovel again.

Rough Drachman reached his ears, and he cautiously glanced up through his bangs, squinting and trying to not make it look like he was watching. Two of the younger, less malicious guards had drifted over in their direction, conversing with themselves- quietly, almost in an idle whisper- but close enough that they could overhear what was being said.

Baring his teeth in a grin, Jean nudged Falman's shuddering shoulder. He locked gazes with him for a moment, only as long as he absolutely had to, then innocently returned to his work.

The Drachmans, ever since realizing Fuery could understand at least some of their language, had gone to great pains to not be within earshot of them whenever they needed to discuss something. Of course, they'd still slipped up a few times, and Fuery had managed to overhear even more than that under cover of darkness... and now with Falman back, the precious information they could glean was going to be even more than before.

In this current hell, he was sure whatever Falman was now overhearing was going to be little more than a very distant rate of hope, at the very best. But it was something. And when they currently had nothing at all, he would take something.

The guards fell silent after a few minutes, drifting away into the darkness again, and only a minute after that, the bell rang signaling the end of the workday. Breda, who had noticed the exchange as well, shook his head minutely at Falman in a sign to stay silent, then pointed back towards the barracks. "Kain, help Vato back inside. We'll stay and finish up."

Falman looked away shamefacedly, his shoulders slumping, but even he saw there was no reason to protest. His legs looked like they were about to give out on him any second, for god's sake. "Sorry," he mumbled under his breath, his eyes indescribably pained, even as Fuery moved closer and carefully maneuvered himself in under his one arm to support him.

"D-don't apologize," Jean forced out, his teeth chattering. He leaned a little more on his shovel for support, stubbornly ordering his legs to stop shaking. "J-just rest; we've g-got thi- _"_

He hit the snow facefirst.

"Wha- Havoc?!"

"Shit-"

"Jean!"

He barely heard the rush of approaching footsteps crunching in the snow over the ringing in his head. He felt his legs twitch agonizingly in the ice and gasped for a moment, too stunned to do anything but just lie there, reeling.

"Hey, Jean!" Breda exclaimed, panic shuddering in every syllable. A cold hand came to his shoulder, shaking him hard, his fellow captain dropping to his knees in front of him with a horrified stare. "Jean, what's wrong?!"

"I..." He managed to raise his head up a little, still more stunned than frightened. "M-my... my legs..."

"Jean?!" Breda called again, sounding almost terrified now. "Your legs? What's wrong?!"

"I... I c-can't..."

_Can't move them..._

" _Jean!"_

It took him several seconds to find his voice, dredging up tremulous words from the pit of horror forming in his gut. "I can't move them..." He pushed himself up on trembling arms, and for the first time since stepping foot in Drachma he was _relieved_ to feel the cold. He was so painfully, nauseatingly, _breathlessly_ relieved to feel the wet chill of the snow soaking through his pants- because it meant he could still feel it.

_But I can't move them..._

_Oh, god-_

"Jean..."

He looked up and stilled at the fear in Breda's eyes- the fear reflected horrifyingly in his own heart. It grounded him, somehow, and he swallowed and shook his head vehemently, shutting his eyes for a moment to try and retain some sense of calm. "No," he choked out at last, squeezing his fists in the freezing ice. "It's not- it's not like that. I can still... feel them. It's not..." _Like before, when they were dead as a doornail, when someone could've cut them off and I'd have been none the wiser, it's okay, they're still there, I can still feel them..._

"Could it be because you've been overworking yourself?" Falman ventured after a moment, voice calm but the cautious fear in his own eyes barely disguised. "Dr. Marcoh said they'd probably never be as strong as before..."

Jean hesitated, trying to slow down enough to think about the possibility. "I- yeah," he mumbled, voice far steadier than he felt, and he still felt sick. "I... that's probably it..."

_It has to be..._

"...Kain, come on; help me get him up." Breda's voice was shaking in the cold, his friend not even able to hide how scared this had left him, but his hands were steady as he moved in to grab one of his arms, waiting for Fuery to join him to help get him to his feet.

It was humiliating. He hadn't felt like such a useless waste of space since the first time he'd climbed into that dammed wheelchair. His cheeks burned and he ducked his head, with all his strength forcing his legs to hold up what little of his weight they could so he was at least standing and not being dragged. "I'm fine," he gritted out, panting and breath misting before him, but he knew himself well enough to not risk yanking his arms from his friends.

Breda gave him a hard look, one that said _no, you're not,_ without words, and he sighed through his teeth, his fists clenching. "Kain, Vato, get him back. Make sure he stays lying down. Hopefully... hopefully he'll be better tomorrow." He shook his head briefly, running a hand through his short hair. "I'll stay; catch up in a couple hours."

"Heymans-" Jean started desperately, already disgusted with himself, but Breda shook his head.

"We don't have a choice. I'm the only one who can." He turned his back firmly, folding his arms in the face of the brutal wind even as he proceeded to kneel back over the snow in the darkness, abandoned and so alone it hurt. "Go on."

Fuery hesitated next to him, features torn and distraught. "My... my eye's not that bad... it's feeling better today," he started weakly, voice shaking. "I- I can stay-"

"Don't lie to your superior. It's insubordination and disrespectful of my intelligence."

Jean frowned at his back, the uncharacteristically cold words making something deep inside him ache. He knew why Breda was saying it, knew why he sounded like that- but Fuery was really only trying to help, and if they started turning on each other now, when all they had was each other... "Breda."

"I said _go!"_

For a moment, Jean just looked at him.

Then, he turned away, unable to take the sight of his friend standing there by himself any longer. "Come on, men," he muttered, and he had never cursed his own fucking useless legs more than he did right in that moment, not in all the months he'd been paralyzed. "We head back."

He glanced back over his shoulder one last time, the mumbled words of gratitude he knew he should give tasting like such lead in his mouth he couldn't even vocalize them.

Breda, too, kept his silence, just stood there and shivered, and at last Jean shut his eyes tightly and turned away, unable to beat the sight any longer.

Fuery and Falman, reluctant despair emanating with every hopeless movement, turned him around and started to near drag him back. Neither would look up from the ground, and Jean clenched his fists, staring down there as well, livid glare driving into his motionless feet as if that'd be enough to make them move.

_Fuck you... fuck you... fuck... you...!_

They barely made it three steps before the Drachmans stopped them.

He felt Fuery cringe and flinch by his side, stumbling a step back, and Jean gritted his teeth, stepping with all the strength he had in front of the already beaten lieutenant and glaring up at the guards. Did they want to fuck with him today? Were they going to push it now when he had nothing left holding him back?! _Go on,_ he wanted to stay, glaring right into their eyes with all the challenge he couldn't say. _Go on. Go after them again. See what happens._

_See what fucking happens this time._

But they didn't go after Fuery or Falman, and the black swell of sheer, dangerous rage began to cool as quickly as it had come. One of the guards spoke in Drachman, looking to Fuery by habit; it was Falman who stiffened almost immediately, raising his head while the lieutenant was still chewing his lip and trying to translate.

" _Chto?"_ he questioned, sounding confused.

The guards hesitated, then looked towards the warrant officer, speaking again. They sounded harsher than before, but Falman still stood there for several moments, seeming even further uncertain, then just nodded. "Captain!" he called, turning around a little, just enough to look back over his shoulder at where Breda stood, already barely visible in the faded light. "They're telling us to go back inside! _All_ of us!"

Breda stiffened, twisting back to face them in surprise. "...What?"

Falman shrugged one shoulder carefully, unsurely. "They told you to come with us. They just want us all inside right now."

The captain stood hesitantly for a moment, as if expecting the shocking olive branch to be yanked back any second now. But, when no move was made, he at last tilted his head in a weak, exhausted nod, the shovel dropping from numb, shivering fingers to clank against the frozen ground. He stumbled up to join them, taking Jean's weight from Falman, but he still seemed to be in shock- and Jean couldn't blame him.

What was going on?

But they got no answer, not even as the guards herded them off almost faster than he could walk. He knew he should be grateful for the respite, whatever its reason- but too many years in the military had taught him that if something good came your way, something good you had done nothing to earn, then you would soon pay for it. This mercy was no mercy, whatever it felt like to them now. It was the sign of worse things to come... and that led to a sense of trepidation so severe it choked off his breath and thoroughly erased any temporary relief that came from this unexpected respite.

After being nearly manhandled back into the barely warmer barracks, the door locked with a chilling clang behind them, Breda shook his head in a wordless request for silence. They shuffled their way back to their little Amestrian corner, Jean cursing himself for every weakened stumble and pathetic trip up, but at last they'd made it back. His cheeks burned when his own subordinates had to nearly carry him onto the bed and he shoved them off as soon as they were able, sweating from the exertion and gnawing so deeply into his lip blood welled.

"I'm _fine,"_ he snapped when Breda opened his mouth to question him, voice more venomous than anything he'd managed in days. "Shut up. I'm _fine."_

"Jean..."

"I'm not important," he nearly growled, pulling his almost useless legs up onto the thin sheets in a well-practiced, perfectly humiliating motion. "Forget about it; I'll be fine tomorrow. The only thing I want to know is what the hell went on out there."

Breda hesitated; Jean held his gaze for a moment, refusing to waver, piercing and demanding as he could. He didn't breathe easily until his fellow captain conceded, the redhead sitting down at the foot of the bed and burying his face in his hands for a moment, tension rolling off of him in waves. "...Fine," he muttered at last, voice muffled by his trembling hands. "You're right. ...This isn't good."

Falman gave a weak nod, swaying slightly on his feet. "Agreed," he managed gruffly, stumbling back to sit on his own bunk. He fell against it hard, almost slipping to lean against the wall with his good shoulder, a pained grimace passing over his face like a shadow. "...It's also especially troublesome, given what I overheard this afternoon..." He dropped his tense voice with a suspicious look around them, narrowing his eyes. "...They said they're getting desperate. They said that they had to make King or one of us snap soon... Apparently, Amestris is closing in."

Jean broke off for a stunned breath, his eyes widening.

Amestris was closing in?

...

Amestris was coming!

He lay his head back for a moment, gasping in sheer relief. Amestris was coming for them! Jean shut his eyes, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt, and next to him he could feel Fuery shaking with relief, and even Breda's hard facade had been dropped as he slumped exhaustedly, covering his face again. They'd known this whole time, of course, Amestris was coming for them... Hawkeye and Ed would never have let them down.

But there was a huge difference, in knowing that in the abstract, and then being presented with concrete proof that it was happening _soon._

"Did you get a timeline?" Fuery asked, his voice small and unbearably hopeful. "How soon?!"

Jean cracked an eye open just in time for Falman to nod grimly, the warrant officer the only one of them managing to keep himself from smiling. "A couple weeks, by the sound of it."

He gasped weakly, shutting his eyes again. A couple weeks...

They were at least halfway through, then.

Halfway to the end.

_We can make it._

_We can do this._

He swallowed another exhausted grin, hands trembling with fatigued joy instead of the cold now. Amestris was coming for them... Amestris was _coming..._ they were going to make it. They and Mustang were going to get out of this. They could do this. They'd survive and make it home and- oh, _god,_ home... _home..._

Falman cleared his throat after several moments, the only one of them able to remain stoic at the news, surely just because he'd been privy to it for most of the day now. "But this is why this worries me. They should be trying harder to break us... but they just let us off easy. It doesn't make any sense..."

After a moment, Breda nodded somberly, rising his head. "I agree," he muttered, casting a suspicious look around the room. "As good as this seems now, it's probably not going to turn out well for us. Or Mustang."

Jean nodded darkly after a moment, letting his head drop back down to the thin mattress. Breda was right. This was undoubtedly some plan of theirs... a plan that was not going to end well. "So what can we do?" he asked, voice rough.

"...Nothing." Breda coughed wetly into his hand for a moment, shoulders shaking with the exhausted strain of it. "We're not currently in a position to learn more, and I... I r-really don't..."

He broke off for another cough, this one harsher than before that shook his thinning frame with tremors. "F-fuck," he gasped into his hand, trembling hard, " _fuck..."_

"Heymans?!" he pushed himself up onto his elbows instantly, alarm rising. "Hey, Heymans, are you okay?!"

His friend managed to stop after several moments, still breathing hard. "Yeah..." he breathed hoarsely, rubbing the heel of his hand over his chest. "F-fine... just a cold..."

Jean exchanged a worried glance with the rest of the team. "That didn't sound like just a cold..."

Breda waved him off after a moment, his shadowed eyes now overly bright with a forced sort of calm. "'m fine," he promised. "Don't worry about me. All of you." He sat up a little straighter, gripping the bed frame for support as he turned his gaze to the rest of their team. "There's nothing we can do tonight. Just rest for now, all of you. Sleep as much as you can, and be ready for whatever the Drachmans are going to try tomorrow. We'll get through, men, whatever it is. We clear?"

Jean narrowed his eyes.

That wasn't like Breda.

His friend was, first and foremost, a strategist. Right now was the kind of situation he lived for... planning and scheming, working into the late hours of the night to calculate out their enemy's next move and devise their own foolproof response. That was why Mustang had sought him out, so many years ago; that was what he did and he was damn good at it.

So, why was he backing out now?

After a moment of looking over Breda again, lingering over the shadows under his eyes, the slumped, tremulous way he sat, and how exhaustion haunted his every breath, he had his answer.

"Crystal, sir," he returned, speaking quietly for them all, and Breda's command facade dissolved with nothing more than a tired sigh of relief.

"Thank you." He stumbled weakly towards his own bunk, dropping to sit heavily against it and cough again. He turned onto his side with no further ado, his back now to them as he huddled up under his thin blankets, shivering in the cold that still chased them all, then awkwardly cleared his throat one last time. "There's an end in sight, you guys. ...We're almost there. Sorry I'm not Mustang, but... tolerate me just a little longer. ...We're going to make it. Remember that."

Jean softened, a weak grin finding its way onto his face again.

"We never asked you to be Mustang, Heymans," he muttered, too soft for the others to hear him. _And we'll be fine, too, so you remember that, and stop blaming yourself that we're not._

Breda, coughing again, didn't reply.

No one spoke after that, and Jean shut his eyes briefly, reaching down to massage one of his legs under the blanket. The feeling was returning, no doubt... slowly and painfully, but it was coming back. This wasn't permanent, then; he'd be all right, surely... he just had to hold out for a little while bit more...

_Come on, you fucking things, Mustang risked his eyesight for you, so the least you can fucking do is work for him now! Damn it, come on..._

His legs ached like fire, a pain he was only too used to, from the months of physical therapy. There was nothing to be done for it but wait it out, and so, after several minutes, he cracked open his eyes again, still massaging his thigh but now, as long as he was awake to do it, keeping an eye out for his team.

He was awake for only several minutes longer than the rest of them when the gunshots started.

* * *

**Roy**

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

Roy sat bolt upright.

His breath choked off in his throat, and he sat there paralyzed, heart pounding so hard he could feel the blood pulse in his head.

Four gunshots.

Why?

He swallowed past his dry throat, inching himself a little more upright against the wall.

Why four gunshots? What were they shooting at?

He thought it was night... Azarov had left him alone some time ago, kicking him into the wall with such force he'd blacked out and when he'd blinked himself awake again, he'd been by himself. It felt like night. It was most certainly cold enough to be.

What were the Drachmans shooting at at _night?_

...

_It could've been as escape attempt,_ he told himself, though he kept his aching, bleeding mouth firmly shut. While he really had no earthly clue where he was, it was most likely a prison of some kind. He and his men weren't the only ones here. It could've been some Drachman trying to escape.

Hell, they were in Drachma. It could've been a wild bear for all he knew.

Roy hesitated, sitting still in the black, frigid silence.

A wild bear.

...Yeah.

He huddled up a little into himself, pulling his knees a little closer to his chest and tucking his hands around his legs, trying not to shiver.

Just a wild bear.

His heart continued to pound, and the silence was so stifling it felt hard to breathe.

Metal clanging rang in his ears, so loud he jumped and instantly hissed with the pain of it. What? No, that... it was too soon for the guards to be making their rounds. What was going on? He gasped again, squeezing his eyes shut underneath the blindfold as he curled as far away from the noise as he could get. What was going on?!

The footsteps came closer- fuck, that was Azarov- that was Azarov...! Why was he coming back? It was night. It was _night._ That son of a bitch left him alone at night. They beat the tar out of him come morning but that had been an unspoken, unbreakable rule; he'd be left _alone_ to freeze to near death at night.

Why was he breaking that rule now?

Roy held his breath, his trepidation rising with each step that brought the Drachman closer to him.

_Closer..._

_Closer..._

_closer..._

He stopped.

Directly in front of his cell.

"Good evening, General Mustang," Azarov greeted, and in his voice, Roy caught just a glimpse of triumphant cruelty.

After a horrifyingly still moment, he somehow sat himself straight upright and arranged his face into a coldest smile that he could.

"Evening," he returned, voice croaking a little, and tried as damn hard as he could to stop the flinch that had grown from speaking Amestrian in his presence.

Except, Azarov didn't make any move to hit him.

He just stood there silently.

For each moment that he was watched, Roy found it harder and harder to breathe.

But at last, he heard the Drachman unlocking the cell door and shouldering his way in, limping forward with two soldiers at his heels to stand several feet back. He remained still for several moments, radiating an aura of triumph so severely it chilled him to the bone.

Then, a small smirk hidden in the dark tones of his voice, he spoke.

"I have something of interest, Mustang." He dragged his bad leg forward another step, looming over him in an obvious display of dominance and threat. "Interest to you."

"Ah? That would be novel, then. So far I've been very bored, Colonel..." He shrugged a little against the cold wall. "Something of interest would be quite welcome."

Azarov said nothing to him, simply snapped his human fingers in the air. A moment later he heard footsteps approaching him again, not Azarov himself but one of his lapdogs, and the brief whistle of air was the only warning he had before a hand smacked across his face with all the brutal speed of a whip.

It stung like pens and needles, he was so cold, and Roy just sat there silently, too apprehensive to press it further. He knew if he pressed it, he could surely goad the moron into going at him until he was unconscious again- but from the way he was talking now...

He really wasn't sure if he wanted to know what had happened more than he wanted the bliss of passing out.

But, rather than give him the time to decide, Azarov just started talking again, his voice resounding in the small space. "You heard gunshots now, did you? One, two, three, four, Mustang..."

It was the growing sense of apprehensive terror that opened his mouth- just postpone the hammer falling a moment longer. "One, two, three, four; _yes_ , good job, Azarov. That is indeed how you count to four."

He barely felt the smack this time, his face too cold and numb and his heart pounding too fast for it to register.

After a brief pause, Azarov cleared his throat and went on. Roy could still practically _hear_ his grim smirk. "My guards shot four rats. Shot them dead. We have rule, General; anything moves after dark, we shoot. You understand. Nothing personal. We have rule." He broke off once more, the sound of his bad leg dragging echoing in his ears as Azarov drew even closer.

"Your subordinates broke that rule."

There was a quiet chuckle from somewhere else in the room, just before Azarov laughed himself.

Roy just gaped silently.

...What?

Azarov laughed again, though he hadn't said a word. "Yes, General... it looks like they were trying to rescue you. All four, crawling over here in mud like typical Amestrian. Almost make it, too... but my guards saw them."

"We shot four rats," one soldier echoed from behind Azarov.

And the second finished, "Shot them dead."

_...What?_

No...

That... that wasn't possible...

Roy took a breath, then made himself straighten, shaking his pounding head. No- no! Calm down, relax, breathe, no... that _wasn't_ possible. No. He'd ordered his men to stay _put._ They'd not risk this. They _knew_ the risks. He'd ordered they stay put and wait for Amestris, and god damn it, he knew his men. They'd sworn to follow his orders even if it led them into hell.

Well, he'd led them into hell here, and even then they had _still_ done it. He'd ordered Kain many days ago to stay put and they had. They were strong. They were unbreakable. They would never, _never_ have turned their backs on Amestris and risked _everything_ just to find him.

They...

_NO!_

"Nothing to say, Mustang?" Azarov asked him, taunted him; laughed. "Your men die for you. You have nothing to say for them?"

It took such strength not to react at that that it felt as if he'd just been pierced through with a red hot blade.

But he did it.

He did it, and he held onto that strength, because his men, damn it, _his_ men, would not have done this.

"If my subordinates," he said, very carefully, his voice hard as steel, each and every word deliberate, "had wished to take me from here, then you would not have even realized I was gone."

The soldier's hand whipped out to hit his face again. Roy calmly let him, then rotated his jaw, spat out the blood, and continued.

"They did no such thing. They are under my direct orders to not come for me, or attempt to break out themselves. And my men follow my orders. Your soldiers fired four bullets into the dirt, and then you come here to try and taunt me with it. You lie, Azarov. You pathetic, worthless, failure, weakling _scum_ of a liar. You're not fit to even speak their names, you sniveling coward, and next time you attempt to convince me my men are lower than scum like yourself and disobeyed me, you will regret the day you were ever born."

This time the smack was swiftly followed by a knee to the gut, then a foot that kicked right in his broken arm. It took all his strength not to cry out but he saw his men in his mind's eye, the only eye he had anymore, he saw them all, and he absorbed that reminder with everything he had and he kept his mouth shut. If they would endure this, all just because he asked them to, then the very least he could do was endure it for them.

He just knelt there, doubled over and wheezing hard past clenched teeth. He held still. He waited. Waited until the rising nausea had calmed, and the gut wrenching waves of pain had faded to little undulating tingles of agony that beat at the back of his mind. Waited until his voice could be steady again. Then:

"You lie," he croaked simply, and lay his head back against the wall.

_Havoc. Breda. Falman. Fuery._

_I believe in you._

There was a moment of silence. Just one single moment, before all hell broke loose.

Azarov strode violently forward, one metal hand locking around his throat and hauling him up, slamming him with such force back against the wall his head spun. _"Zedealy eta, suchara bly suchka pindos!"_ he snarled at him, swearing out whatever the curse meant in a voice that nearly shattered with hatred and fury and then he screamed it, _"ZEDEALY ETA!"_

Roy spat in his face.

In retrospect, that had not been the wisest move to make.

Azarov went rigid, the cold hand around in his throat suddenly locking tighter. Squeezing tighter, and tighter, so tight not even a whisper of air could make it down into his lungs. He was shaking, Roy could feel it, suddenly breathing hard, nearly _vibrating_ such was his rage- inching along closer and closer to the edge that he was trying to push Roy towards.

The place where self control and restraint were completely, utterly gone.

With a cry, Azarov suddenly jerked back and hurled him to the floor. Roy barely managed to turn himself onto his side in time to land, his head smacking twice against the metal and leaving him gasping. He curled away in a blind panic, instinct taking control no matter how hard he tried to be stoic, but it was too late to protect himself.

" _Poluchit' yego. Poluchit' suchara,"_ he snarled, and then he was gone, his footsteps proceeding away at a rapid, furious pace- while his men were suddenly advancing on him. Roy jerked back but two cold hands were there, each locking around one of his arms and hauling him up to his knees without any mind towards his kicked struggles.

And they started to drag him out into the hallway.

Oh... _oh..._

_Oh,_ that...

His _arm..._

His arm-!

His mind shut off, his knees went out, and Roy didn't know anything except for the pain.

It could've been minutes. It could've been hours. He screamed and writhed and kicked like a beaten dog, throwing his head back and howling to the sky. There was nothing except for the grating pain of bones scraping against each other, embedded so deep in him that all there was was agony.

God... oh, _god..._

Ow, _owowow_ _ **ow...**_

Roy only very vaguely realized when the blinding haze of agony became something different. He'd been tossed onto his knees in cold snow, a blustery wind howling around him, but he lacked the strength to keep upright and he fell facefirst into the frozen ground. He gasped so hard he retched, vomiting weakly into the snow. God his arm, his _arm..._ his arm hisarmhisarmhisarm...

Cold fingers grabbed him by the hair, hauling him back upright to jerk his head back. "Finished crying like woman?" Azarov laughed in his face, and no matter how hard he tried Roy could not stop the dry sob that ripped its way out through clenched teeth.

He didn't have the strength or state of mind for words; was still too reeling to even remember how to speak. But Azarov must've taken him gaping soundlessly as an affirmative, because then he was being dragged again, this time by his hair rather than his arm, hauled over the snow until he was finally let to drop against his knees again.

There was something at his feet. Something that wasn't snow... it felt cold and limp and... disturbing, almost, like he should _know_ what it was, but he was too exhausted and in too much pain to focus on it. He let his head hang instead, gasping through clenched teeth and trying as hard as he could not to throw up again.

"You call me liar?!" Azarov hissed in his ear, yanking his head back up again so harshly his neck almost snapped. "You call me liar, General Mustang?! _Look who is lying now!"_

And for the first time in weeks, the blindfold was yanked off.

He reeled backwards as much as he could, squeezing his eyes shut and craning away from the light. But Azarov shoved him forward again, growling, "No, you _look,_ Amestrian filth, you _look!"_ and Roy had no choice but to open his eyes.

After untold weeks of complete darkness, even the near blackness of a Drachman winter night was too much for him. He squinted and winced, frowning as his eyes stung and watered desperately in protest. He was definitely outside. It was dark and there was snow everywhere; the only light he had were the weak, wavering beams of flashlights, even those almost too much for his sensitive eyes to stand. He continued to squint and leaned away a little, as much as Azarov would allow. What were they trying to show him...?

A few moments of painful staring later and he managed to discern a blurry, dark blob on the ground, a black mass over the white snow. The beams of light fell across the shape, throwing it into sharp clarity that he had to fight to process. It wasn't just a seamless mass... it was several smaller, more distinct figures... four of them...

There was... blood?

Blood- dying the pale snow pink, painting the four dark shapes in soaked crimson-

His breath caught.

It was four bodies.

_No..._

There were four bodies in the snow. Each shot in the head. Right in the head, close range, low caliber, heavy slugs that had destroyed their faces and splattered blood over them beyond all recognition.

_No..._

His vision was still stubbornly blurred, refusing to give him detail, but he could see- oh, god-

One of them was blond.

Oh, god.

One of them was blond.

No...

That... it _couldn't b_ e...

_That's not..._

_(You ever seen a Drachman with blond hair, Mustang?)_

_No..._

But then... then... the one next to _it's not Havoc_ was...

It was a redhead.

_No, no, no...  
_

And- and then-

In the smallest one, crumpled and dead in the snow...

There was a pair of glasses broken over his face.

_No..._

_No, no, no..._

Clarity rushed in through still struggling eyes, and suddenly, he could see everything.

Jean. Heymans. Vato. Kain.

His men.

His men.

His men were...

_Were..._

_NO! NONONONONONONONO-_

"We shot four rats, Mustang," Azarov laughed in his ear, and brutally kicked him face down into the snow. The blindfold was yanked back down, covering his eyes once again- but too late. Far, far, too late. "Shot them dead."

_No... no they didn't... no they didn't... they wouldn't have, they promised me... no... no, no, no, no, oh, god-_

"Your men die for you, Mustang. Nothing to say for them? No defense? No tears? No revenge for them? No revenge for them?!"

_No..._ he'd ordered them not to, and they'd said they wouldn't! They'd said, they'd _said!_ They'd not go back on their word, not to him! They _wouldn't!_ They hadn't! They couldn't have! He'd ordered them no and they'd looked him in the eye and all said _yes, sir,_ they'd promised they wouldn't-

_We know you'll see us home, General.  
_

_Shot four rats. Shot them dead._

_We'll get out of this. Stay strong, soldier._

_Shot them dead._

No...

No, no, no... no, no, no no no no no _no, NO- **NO!**_

"They're _dead,_ Mustang!" Azarov screamed at him, not even an inch away.

_**NO! NO! NO!** _

_...Oh, god..._

_...dead..._

" _No revenge for them?!"_

Something deep inside him shattered.

Revenge?

_REVENGE?!_

He could suddenly see it. See this entire place on fire. Hear the flames crackling in his ear, smell the ash and acrid smoke and scent of roasted human flesh. Feel the oppressive heat as it burned to the ground. Hear the horrifying screams of a man in greater pain than could ever be imagined. See the Drachman soldiers as they ran for their lives, but there was nowhere left to run, and they just sprinted like rats in a cage until there was nothing left of them but charred bone.

He could see Azarov burning to death. His skin disintegrating, face melting. Could _taste_ that fucking shit's blood on the air, and he _enjoyed it._

He could see this entire prison burning to the ground, every Drachman soldier in this world burning with it- and as his fingers met and clenched, tensing to be dragged in a _snap, snap, snap, snap, SNAP-_ he knew he'd never wanted anything more in his entire life.

_Burn, you motherfuckers._

_Burn._

_No, no, no, Jean... Heymans... Vato... Kain... no..._

_BURN!_

_They're dead. They're gone. They're... they're..._

_Oh, god, there's so much blood..._

_Shot four rats, shot them dead-_

_**Burn.** _

_**Burn, burn, BURN!** _

Just as the rough ignition cloth caught, friction dragging over his fingertips and greeting him like the last old friend he had, he remembered.

The fires of an army burning alive that glowed beautifully in his mind flickered into blackness, and in their place was his men.

All looking up at him in that cold warehouse that was surely a century ago. Blood-spattered and tired but gazing to him without hesitation, waiting patiently and without complainant for his orders.

He remembered not one flinch or hint of doubt when he'd commanded they march into this prison and their deaths with their heads held high. They'd all just looked to him and nodded, surrendering their very lives to him without so much as a protest.

Because they'd trusted him.

Because they'd _known_ what would happen should they fail.

They'd trusted him.

With everything.

_Burn..._

If he let it happen now...

_You've already failed them all. You've already violated their trust- they TRUSTED you, and you let them die! You let this happen to them, you worthless scum!- if you do this now..._

He'd be spitting in their graves.

Roy saw his fires again, and this time, he watched as, one by one, his dead team burned in them, too.

_Don't you dare._

_Don't you fucking dare._

" _SUCHARA!"_ Azarov shouted in his face, yanking him up into the air again. His shackled legs hung limply and his hands- oh, his hands- his restrained, bleeding, deadly, _lethal_ hands- they were just as still, soaked in the blood of his men, just as still... _"Zedealy eta, ZEDEALY ETA, MUSTANG!"_

His bloody, murdering hands twitched.

He could almost smell Azarov burning.

Almost... hear him screaming...

_No._

_Don't you dare, you pathetic, murdering failure._

_Not yet.  
_

" _ZEDEALY ETA!"_

No.

"Burn in hell, Azarov."

_Burn..._

Azarov held him still in the air for the space of a heartbeat.

Then, in perfect timing with the man's scream of earth shattering rage, a metal fist swung across to sock him right in the face.

He felt his jaw break, that time.

The force of the punch swung him out of Azarov's grip to hit the cold ground again, and he just lay there, curled in the snow. He let the Drachman kick him next, hurtling him onto his back; listened numbly as he shouted another curse.

There was some moving around, Azarov's limped gait crunching through the snow, then suddenly something heavy and metal had whacked him across the back. "Don't respect your men enough to even go after their killer?! _Pindos...Yobaniy mudila...!_ You make me sick." He was kicked again, turned onto his side, his head smacking against something cold and metal again. "Dig their graves, pathetic trash."

Roy froze.

"Dig their graves!" Azarov shouted at him again, foot digging into his back. "Or are you such trash you won't even do _that?!"_

And Roy, devastated, distraught, and horrified, was left too shocked to do anything but croak a single word.

"...What?"

This time it was a boot to his already broken jaw, and Azarov snarled another laugh at him. "Dig their graves, I say. Or do you have so little respect you don't care if they're left to rot here? _DO IT, Mustang!_ "

And Roy just remained frozen, so stunned he could not even move.

...What?

No. No, he... he wasn't _serious..._

They wouldn't make him- not _that..._

Azarov said something in Drachman, something that sounded incredulous and mocking. His soldiers all laughed, an impossible chorus of hilarity that rang in his ears, and then he was kicked again, this time landing facefirst on the something metal.

A shovel, he realized.

It was a shovel.

...

_Oh, god._

"You will! You have so little respect for your men you let them rot without a burial! _Pathetic,_ Mustang! They die for you, and you still treat them like dirt! Pathetic, filthy Amestrian... _pathetic!"_

He meant it.

He actually meant it.

He was to dig his men's graves.

Roy's bile rose at the horror, the impossibility of it at all, the ruthless _shock_ that still gripped him so tightly he could barely even breathe, and he fell back on his knees in numb disbelief.

Oh, _god._

But, what choice did he have?

If he didn't, his men would be left like this.

They'd just leave _Jean, Heymans, Vato, Kain, oh, god..._

They'd just be abandoned as bloody and crumpled heaps, to get rained on and snowed on and covered in mud and- oh god, he was going to throw up again-

They'd just be left there...

_(Oh god they're dead)_

Imprisoned for him... shot dead for him...

Abandoned _by_ him.

_Oh, god, please, no..._

He could still feel their bodies at his feet.

_They're dead... they're dead, they're dead... I killed them..._

Oh fuck, he could see them- covered in mud and snow and rotting- abandoned, _abandoned-_ he could see everyone's faces when he was dragged back home- could see Ed, furious and disgusted, _you just LEFT them there like that?!_ he could see Maes, turning his back on him _what the fuck is wrong with you-_ Hawkeye, repulsed and horrified, _how could you?!_ _How COULD you?!  
_

God, Jean's mother- he'd _seen_ that silent judgement, anguished reproach, that _fury_ in her eyes when he'd paralyzed her son- that boy was all she had- and now-!

And-

_No, no- you shut up! SHUT UP!_

What was he doing? What was he _doing?!_ Bemoaning how hard this would be on _him?!_

- _they're gone, they're gone, they're GONE-_

No.

They were his men.

He was not going to leave them to this.

That was all there was to it.

Hollow and shaking, Roy took a deep, horrible breath, then painstakingly drew his legs underneath him. He fumbled blindly for the shovel. The laughter around him cut off abruptly but he paid it no mind, feeling only the rough metal through his gloves (his _fucking_ gloves). He fell the first time he started to rise, collapsing weakly into the cold, bloody snow and nearly bowling over onto his belly. The second and third times, he fell, too, and when he finally managed to stand on his wobbling knees for the first time in weeks his head spun so much it was a wonder he didn't pass out then and there.

But he bore it.

_-you fucking pathetic worthless murderer-_

For them.

_-they're dead they're dead they're dead-_

The first attempt to dig the shovel into the ice and snow it glanced off and he was sent onto his back again, hitting the snow with a miserable thud.

He breathed out once through clenched teeth, pushed himself upright once again, and returned to trying to dig the shovel into the ground.

It was dead silent now.

The only sound was the hard _ka-thunk_ of metal striking ice, painfully, slowly, etching and forming a grave with the utmost care.

He was shaking again. This time, it wasn't from the cold.

Roy didn't know how long it took. It was impossible to know. His hands had long gone numb from the freezing chill, his whole body covered in the painful pins and needles of winter where it hadn't been battered into bruises and blood. He fumbled around the bodies, each time he blindly nudged one by accident nearly crying out or throwing up or hurling himself away in a sickened, horrified sort of panic. It took him hours longer than the task would've taken him just weeks ago, but with his hands bound and his eyes covered he just couldn't do it- and his arm _hurt,_ but, that was nothing. That was _nothing_ compared to the growing, deep ache, right in the center of his chest, the numb and curious thing that still spreading until it weighed him down like lead and was so heavy it suffocated him. But he still dug until he couldn't feel anything but the cold. His back was about to break. His hands dripped blood into his gloves. His legs shook so badly it was a wonder he was on his feet at all. He was _cold._ So, so cold.

And over it all, he was numb with so great a horrified shock he almost couldn't even feel the pain.

But he still dug until there was nothing left to dig.

Roy held still for a moment, just standing there and trembling in the bitterly cold wind. He let the shovel drop, nearly choking on a buried sob.

He could still feel Azarov watching him, and could taste his flesh burning.

_Burn in hell..._

_Burn in hell...!_

But rather than drop to his knees in defeat, he forced his legs to move, carrying him towards where he knew his team all lay, slaughtered and abandoned like trash.

Because his work was not done yet.

He knelt down by their sides, reaching forward with trembling hands. It took everything he had not to throw himself away when his thumb finally found skin- cold skin- freezing skin- _dead_ skin- and he gently held the limp hand in his own, heart swelling until he choked.

"Which one is this?"

The words came out on the front end of a barely buried sob, and there was no response.

" _Which one?"_

_Oh, god..._

When at last the answer came, the knee to the back afterwards seemed like almost an afterthought, to him. God knew it hurt less than anything else already ripping through his soul.

"Jean Havoc."

It felt like Azarov had just embedded a hand in his heart and torn it straight in two.

_Jean..._

Roy bowed his head over his subordinate for a moment, throat tight. Oh, god, Jean. _Jean._ He held the still hand, tears welling underneath his shut eyes. _"Jean,"_ he whispered, a fine tremor shuddering down from his shoulders to the very tips of his toes. Oh, god.

The breath he took to prepare nearly broke him, and when he curled his grip around the man as best he could, it felt as if he was dying.

To lift himself to see his feet, then begin to pull Jean after him- the pain was exquisite.

His whole body sang in the agony of it, nearly too weak to hold out and sobbing with each throbbing muscle and aching limb and screaming bruise. It took simply more than he had to pull Jean into his arms but he tried, oh god he tried, fighting with everything he could give- but he just didn't have the strength. With his arms bound and one broken, his whole body numb and frozen and trembling on the very edge, he couldn't do it. He hauled with all his strength, straining to pull Jean up and over his back but he couldn't- he couldn't- _Jean,_ he sobbed silently, gasping with the pain of it until at last he held still, realizing with numb horror what had to be done.

After several slow, impossible seconds, Roy swallowed his own disgust, turned his back, and began to drag him.

And now, the physical pain was nothing at all to the anguish that pierced him through like a poisoned spear.

His men deserved better than this. They deserved a military funeral of the highest honor, buried draped in the Amestrian flag they'd died for _(died, dead, they're dead, they're dead oh god)_ and their country a witness to their sacrifice. They did not deserve a failure of a commander like him, one who'd led them straight into hell then stood by as they were executed for him. They did not deserve this misshapen, shallow hole in the frozen ground, hidden away in the middle of nowhere to be forgotten.

And he could not even give them the very least, and instead inflicted one last indignity on them, and dragged them over the snow like trash.

They did not deserve to die.

They deserved none of this... _none of it!_

_Oh god, oh god, oh god... look at what you did, look at what you did! You led them here, you saw them dead, and now you won't even do them the honor of carrying them to their GRAVES. Look at you! Look at what you've DONE!_

_Oh, god..._

He dragged Jean to his grave, and once finally there, each trembling, heaved step perfectly measured and calculated, he dropped to his knees, and set the man down with every bit of care that he could.

_I'm sorry, Jean,_ he mouthed, bowing his head again. His lips moved, but he couldn't find his voice. Not through the unbearable, mournful tightness in his throat, the one that grew more and more painful with each passing second. _I'm sorry._ He lowered himself with an agonizing tenderness, nearly sobbing as he kissed his brow.

_I'm so sorry._

Then, trembling so violently he could barely stand, Roy returned to the bodies, and again asked for the name of the next one.

Again, he didn't even feel the blow.

All he heard was the name.

_Heymans Breda._

It took even longer to drag him. His legs were weak and about to give out, his shoulders screamed with the effort, his head rang in agony, he was so disgusted with himself he nearly threw up. To finally set him down gave him a breathless little sob all the same, because as much as it _hurt_ to hold them in his arms he suddenly never wanted to let go, because the moment he did it was over, _over,_ _ **over,**_ but it was already over for them, wasn't it...? Over. They were gone.

He kissed his brow, too, and this time, almost choked on a sob as he bowed over his bloody, destroyed face.

They were _gone._

_There's nothing left..._

Oh, god...

_Which one is this?_

_Smack._

_Vato Falman._

This time, his ankle did give out on him, midway through. And Roy found his mouth moving again, without a voice but apologizing breathlessly the entire time, half-sobbing out apologies for letting him fall and hit the ground like this, swearing he'd never wanted this, choking _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-_

_I'm sorry,_ his lips moved against his forehead, the blood soaking through his gloves as he cradled his face in his hands. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

This time, he dragged himself back to the last body on his his hands and knees.

He knew who it was.

He asked anyway.

Kain Fuery was worth the blow he got for it.

They all were, a thousand times over.

And, his heart ripped into a thousand, crushed, utterly destroyed pieces, Roy stood one last time, his subordinate's hand in his, and dragged him to his grave.

_Forgive me,_ he begged soundlessly, his lips brushing over the frozen ice and snow and blood on his forehead. _I never wanted this. Please, god, forgive me._

But he didn't mean it.

_Don't forgive me._

_I don't deserve it._

It took more strength than he'd ever held in his life before to draw back. And the moment he did- the very _moment_ his hand no longer touched his powerful, dedicated, perfect, _loyal_ men, something in him died. And he knew, in that moment, there was no getting it back.

They were gone.

Roy didn't stand again. He didn't return to Azarov or his men. He just knelt there on the side of the grave, head bowed, and so very dead that he wished to throw himself in after them.

The blindfold, soaked with sweat and blood before, was now soaked with silent tears, as well.

Azarov thudded over the snow at last to stand directly behind him. Once upon a time, Roy would've flinched away, or raised his hands to protect his head, or sassed him, or... something.

Now, he just sat there.

_Oh, god, they're dead._

_They're dead._

_They're dead they're dead they're-_

"Finished, Mustang?"

_-dead they're dead they're dead-_

" _I asked you a question!"_

Azarov kicked him violently onto his side, the blow shattering another rib and driving a cry out from his throat only through instinct. Other than that, he held silent.

_You'll burn in hell, Azarov._

_I'll send you there myself, you fucking sniveling pathetic piece of trash. You son of a fucking bitch I'll burn you alive and send you to hell and follow you there after it._

_But not now._

Not after what his men had given up to ensure that didn't happen.

_Not yet._

" _SUCHARA!"_ Azarov kicked him again, any minimum restraint he'd ever had shattering in that one instant. _"BLY SUCHKA! ZEDEALY ETA, ZEDEALY ETA!"_

Soon his other men had joined him, kicking and shouting at him like an empty rag doll. Roy just lay there and let them.

The little bursts of pain like fire were relished, over the cold, black emptiness that had now spread through him from head to toe and drowned him in its grief.

Some part of him honestly wished they would kill him.

But they did not. They went at him for what could've been forever, beating him into the ground and bruising or breaking more bones than he could count, but through it all he still breathed and never once did he stop. And wasn't that so ironic? Here he was, taking so many devastating blows and never once granted even the mercy of ignorant, peaceful unconsciousness, but his men... just one tiny bullet racing through their brains in the space of a split second and _bam!_ That was it. That was all. It was over.

_They're gone..._

" _Mudila!"_ Azarov howled at him, screaming up until the night. _"Zedealy eta, Mustang, suchara bly- MUDILA! Zedealy BLY ETA!"_

And then everything was still.

Blood poured from him, and Roy again wished it would continue to go until there was none of it left.

When Azarov's metal hand locked around his and started to pull, Roy was so relieved he sobbed in selfish gratitude. Yes. Please, god. Take him away from this. Take him away from here. _God,_ anywhere but here. Throw him back in his cold, lonely, miserable little cell and leave him there to rot. Shoot him dead. Throw him to drown in the river. Just please, _god,_ anywhere but here.

Azarov only dragged him for several feet, however, before he was suddenly lifted up into the air, and then thrown like a sack of rice.

He hurtled in a nauseating, shocking free fall, spinning in the freezing air just long enough for him to cry out. The moment the air left his lungs the wind was knocked out of him, everything grinding to a halt as he slammed to a stop facefirst. The wooden edge of the shackles dug painfully into his chest, breaking surely yet another rib, and his arm- his _ARM,_ oh god! He shrieked and howled like a slain beast, throwing himself onto his back and dry sobbing through the pain, hyperventilating until he choked and choking until he threw up. His nonexistent vision went red, nauseous and shocked, horrified agony lacing through him till it felt like his head was about to burst. Surely he was dying, surely nothing else could hurt like this...!

But dying was a mercy reserved for men not like him, men with honor, men who hadn't failed their soldiers, and his traitorous body _refused_ to stop working. With each choked, sobbed breath the pain finally started to recede, bringing back with it the freezing chill that soaked down to his bones and then, clarity, detail, then...

Then he felt it.

He wasn't lying on snow.

He wasn't lying on ice.

He wasn't lying on mud. Or the shovel. Or even the ground at all.

What was underneath him...

Stiff, unmoving shapes... rough cloth...

...cold, blood sticky flesh...

His heart stopped.

"N... No..."

_Oh, god, no..._

No, they hadn't- they couldn't have-

"Have a good night, Mustang," Azarov called down to him, laughing. Laughing, laughing, always _laughing._ "Sweet dreams."

No- no no no- he hadn't, he hadn't, no, not even Azarov- not _this-_ oh god no-

His frozen, flailing hands stumbled to a halt over a pair of glasses.

No- no- _no no no- **no-**_

**"** _**NO!"** _

Roy threw himself away, so horrified he choked on it. He scrabbled away from the bodies, no heed for their honor any more as he kicked and fought, desperately trying to escape. _"NO!"_ he screamed again, slamming into the wall of the grave- he was in the _grave!-_ and throwing his hands up without even feeling the pain of it, nauseatingly frantic to escape. But there was nothing to grab on to- he couldn't climb out- _"No, please! Please don't do this!"_ oh god _"Let me out, LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT OF HERE! NO!"_

No one answered him.

_Oh, god, no- god please- "Let me out! Let me out let me out let me out! PLEASE! PLEASE DON'T DO THIS! LET ME OUT, LET ME OUT!"_

But there was no one there to save him.

Roy screamed again, shrieking his horror to the sky and hurtling himself backwards again, pushing himself as far away from his men as he could get. He threw himself back against the dirt wall and kicked and fought, but every time his feet hit onto one of his men he cried out again, inundated with horror and disgust and misery and sheer _terror. "LET ME OUT OF HERE!"_ he screamed, pleaded, _begged_ , but there was nothing. _"LET ME OUT! PLEASE, GOD, LET ME OUT!"_

He screamed it until he was hoarse. Then he sobbed it, voice croaking and haunted and _gone,_ inaudible to any but himself.

_"Let me out... let me out let me out let me out..." please...  
_

And there was still no one.

_Let me out let me out let me out let me out..._

* * *

When Colonel Azarov returned the next morning, many, many hours later, and lifted Roy Mustang out of the grave of four executed Drachmans, he didn't so much as twitch in reaction or cry out from the pain.

All he did was mumble the whole time he was dragged back to his cell. Mumble three broken, devastated, empty words.

" _Let me out... let me out... let me out..."_


	5. Chapter 5

**Before**

**February 4th, 1918**

Their situation was not good.

It had been a week, since Falman and Hawkeye had been shot. In that time, they had drawn tantalizingly close to the border, carrying Hawkeye and helping Falman stagger about to swiftly highjacked cars abandoned from city to city, their only goal that of making it in time.

However, in every new city, it seemed more and more soldiers were looking for them, the Drachmans no longer attempting any disguise at the fact that they knew Amestrian soldiers were there and they wanted them dead. With two badly wounded comrades and no supplies to speak of, they were fast losing spirit and strength, and with each passing encounter, the Drachmans came just that much closer into catching them.

To make matters worse, Hawkeye had succumbed to the infection that was such a great danger with cauterization and stomach wounds both- the infection he'd known, even as he'd taken his hands to her flesh, that was unavoidable. He had one of his own, after battling Lust, and spent days bedridden and half delirious with fever- and that was with immediate medical attention and a sanitary hospital at hand. In the middle of frozen Drachma, her only doctor a Flame Alchemist who could do nothing but stop the bleeding, she'd had no chance.

She hadn't woken in over a day, or spoken for three.

Falman, on the other hand, was also going from bad to worse. After seeing that his warrant officer had only been shot in the arm, he'd been relieved at first, sinking back to Riza's side and letting his men attend to it- but then, the reality of it had come out.

The bullet was not just still stuck in his shoulder. It had shattered the bone, and was embedded now in the pieces of what had used to be his arm.

It had been Fuery, oddly enough, to stomach it best. Havoc and Breda had pulled away, both looking faintly green from the sight as they'd come to get his attention, but his youngest soldier had managed to stay by his side, palm pushing quietly at his chest to keep him down and the other gripping his hand.

Sometimes it was hard to remember that, aside from him and Hawkeye, because of Bradley's transfer of his men, Fuery was the only one of his team who had been in an actual war.

But regardless of their collective experience with war time wounds, there was nothing to be done. Roy didn't want to risk even digging the bullet out. He'd ended up needing to cauterize the wound shut as well, although Falman had been in so much pain beforehand he'd barely noticed it at the time. His warrant officer was very slowly recovering some modicum of health, at least, able to stand and walk about a little on his own, though he wouldn't speak of how badly it was hurting and had stopped answering them when asked if he could feel and move his fingers.

Another grievance that this Colonel Azarov was _going_ to answer for.

Roy sighed heavily, replacing the cool, wet cloth over Riza's forehead before reluctantly moving away from her side. He let his hand trail over her cheek as he pulled away, unable to help himself, but still had to end up moving away from her, walking to rejoin the loosely formed circle around Falman. "Where were we?" he grunted tiredly, rubbing his eyes.

Havoc sighed grimly. "Plotting out movements. I think if we're lucky, we can make it to the border in two days."

"Luck has not been our side ever since we ended up in this godforsaken country, Havoc."

The man sighed, chewing on his thumb again- his nervous habit of cigarettes not quite working out for him since they'd run out last week. "Make it four days, then."

Roy grimaced, glancing around at his men. "Make it three. For Hawkeye's sake." He glanced back at his wounded major, his heart clenching. "She's improving a little, I think, but I'm not going to feel safe until we get her to a hospital." He sighed again, massaging his temple with gloved hands. "It's looking like she could wake up tonight..."

"The medicine's working, then?"

He nodded stiffly, still looking at her. "It would appear so."

Two days ago, on Falman's instruction- the man was a damn walking encyclopedia, even in this state; it was unbelievable- his men had broken into a nearby hospital and thieved just about everything they could to help treat her. He wanted to say her improvement had him feeling relieved...

But she was just too pale, too ill, too _hurt,_ for him to feel anything close to relief at now.

Roy sighed gruffly again, forcefully pulling himself away from that line of thought and facing his men again. "Regardless of her condition," he gritted out, struggling to tamp down on his simmering anger and pain, "we still have the problem of the border crossing. Whatever the Drachmans' plans are, they seem to not be very keen on allowing us out of the country."

Falman cleared his throat, waving his good hand to get their attention. "A-about that..." he stammered, voice wavering. He shut his eyes for a moment, face contorting in a pained grimace. "Been thinking..."

"Falman?"

"T-The Drachmans were... firing for you, sir. But... stopped when... when you hid us- behind the smoke. ...Why?"

"...Why?" Fuery asked hesitantly, and Roy sighed gravely.

"He's asking what the Drachmans want, with all of this," Roy murmured. "One would assume sniper fire means they were trying to kill me. Both you and Hawkeye were in front of me when you were hit." He paused, clenching his fists from the reflexive, pained guilt of it. "...But when I hid us all behind the smoke... they stopped."

Havoc nodded. "Which means they don't want to kill you. They wanted to slow you down... but they want you alive, sir."

"Us," he corrected. "They could've easily killed at least one of you before I got cover out. They didn't. ...Whatever their end game is, it involves us alive. ...And, if we're to get past Azarov and make it to Amestris, it will be extremely helpful to know just what that end game is. He's going to try and stop us- if we know what his motivations are it'll be very useful."

Useful, right...

Although, part of him really didn't want to know what his plan was. Part of him _wanted_ Azarov and his men to corner them midway through the border, guns and all, just so he'd be left with no choice but to fry them all.

If it had been just him, he truthfully would've embraced that possibility with open arms.

But his men were here, too, and that meant his _only_ priority was to see them home safely. That did not include walking straight into an ambush at the border- no matter how tempting the chance to burn Azarov alive was.

Breda began to lay out everything that they knew, grim-faced and drawn the entire time. "We were originally dispatched to recover Drachman spy Rimsy Gorbachev. We had strong evidence that he had spied on classified meetings of generals with the Fuhrer. We believed that Drachma thought they had gotten away- however, within an hour of crossing the border, our train had been stopped and inspected."

Havoc continued onwards, chewing on the quick of his thumb again. "They could've arrested us then and there for entering the country illegally. However, instead, they acted as if they hadn't even noticed us." Then he raised his hand, ticking off the suspicious signs one by one as they reoccurred to him. "It's become more and more apparent that the Drachmans are tracking us, and have been since the day we left Amestris- trying to bait us into something. We overheard that they were going to try and lead us deeper into the country, that they had proof of their spy's innocence, and that we had to have been here for at least a month for their plan to work."

"Which, by this point, we have been," Breda continued darkly. "We also know they want us alive- which doesn't make much sense, now that I think about it. Obviously, we've been baited here from the start, for some kind of ambush. But if they don't want us dead..."

Roy frowned, shaking his head at them. "Killing me doesn't make any sense, either. Drachma's not stupid. If their military shot me dead, whether I'd entered their country illegally or not, Grumman would declare war. Not even Drachma is that stupid, but..."

His breath caught.

Not even Drachma was that stupid.

They weren't.

Except, that was exactly what this situation was asking for- _war._

...

Oh.

He shut his eyes briefly for a moment, burying his face in his hands and breathing in deeply. He ran through every fact again in his mind, reanalyzing everything that had occurred thus far and every single encounter with the Drachmans. With each new fact that clicked into place, his sense of horror only grew. This wasn't just a plausible explanation- it was the _only_ explanation.

And it tied his hands more effectively than any other would.

At last, his voice now a low, dreadfilled monotone, Roy cleared his throat.

"They want war."

"...Sir?"

He drew himself up straight, gloved hands clenching in his lap. He couldn't bring himself to look up at his men, though, and instead left his gaze focused downwards, his heart pounding even harder with every word that he said. "They want war with Amestris. Except they can't afford to provoke it- so that's what we're doing here. That is exactly why we were baited here. We're the provocation."

His men all stared at him uncertainly, clearly none of them quite getting it, and Roy cleared his throat again, so tense and stiff it ached. "Think about it from how this looks to an outsider. Amestrian military officers illegally enter the country. We've been stealing cars and breaking into places this whole time. We've been evading arrest for a week now. And, if our mission had succeeded- we would've essentially kidnapped one of their citizens and brought him home with us. A citizen who, it seems, they have proof has done nothing wrong. Drachma can very easily call this the opening shot and declare war- and that is exactly what they intend to do."

They all paled.

"...W-wait!" Fuery stammered at last, drawn and trembling. "Why would they need to do that? Why need us to set it off?"

"And why were they trying to kill you, then, Mustang?! That doesn't help them at all-"

"They _weren't_ trying to kill me," he corrected, raising a hand for silence. "They were specifically trying _not_ to, in fact. Remember? At that point, we were dragging our feet, and had been for a while- they must've been getting impatient. They must've hoped wounding me would force you all to take some sort of action, something they could use as provocation."

"But _why-"_

"Because they can't afford to be the instigators," he interrupted without pause, lowering his hand again. He shut his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to take in a deep, shuddering breath. "For three years, we've been trying to reestablish ourselves as a peaceful state. We've already formed an alliance with Xing, Creta, and the new Ishvallan state, that we'll defend each other if attacked and we'll not attack each other. We're in talks with Aerugo for them to join as well. Fuhrer Grumman wanted to include Drachma... Olivier warned they wouldn't want to and it would only end badly for us... but, three months ago, the Fuhrer approached them."

He'd kept silent at the time, Drachma far from his area of expertise and his concerns lying still, almost entirely, with Ishval. He'd privately been an optimist, and agreed with Grumman- best to try, at least, it couldn't end badly...

Except, apparently, it could.

He fell silent for several moments, letting his men absorb the implications while he himself accepted them. Fucking warmongers... after three years of them fighting to restore their country's honor and build it back up from what Bradley had taken it down to, for this to happen...

He bowed his head, gloved hands trembling.

"If they attack us, they'll be destroyed by the combined forces of everyone in the alliance. They know it. ...But, if we attack them... so soon after publicly entering peace talks..."

They all gasped.

"It's going to look like revenge for them not wanting to enter the alliance with us," Havoc murmured, his eyes wide. "Aerugo will back out. Creta, at least, will withdraw. We'll just be back to where we were before..."

"No, it'll be even worse than before." Breda shook his head slowly, obviously horrified. "The image we've been going for this whole time is the _new_ government. Bradley was the old; Grumman, Armstrong, and Mustang are the new. With Xing helping us, we were able to get the other countries to listen to us as a new state rather than Bradley's Amestris. But now..."

"We'll look just like we did before," Roy finished, shutting his eyes. "Except worse. Break someone's trust once, and they might forgive you. Break it a second time, and they won't."

The peace talks would dissolve. The only ally they'd have left would be Xing- and maybe, not even them. Nothing, save another government revolution, would be able to get them to be trusted again- and Amestris would never survive a second upheaval so soon after the first. The other countries would strike out preemptively, seeking to defend themselves from Drachma's fate...

It'd be an all out massacre.

And they had walked straight into Drachma's trap, because now, there was no way out.

"...So..." Fuery ventured weakly at last, chewing on his lip. "...What do we do now?"

It was the question on everyone's mind- and the one that Roy was least keen on answering.

What there was to do now.

Somehow, he steeled himself calmly, feeling even colder than the Drachman air around them. "There is nothing we can do," he forced himself to say, his voice utterly flat, and looked to each of his men. "The longer we stay in Drachma, the worse this gets, and the easier it is for them to instigate war. If we escape back to Amestris, however, then all Drachma has to do is publicly announce everything that's happened. Amestris will be accused of harboring enemies of the Drachman state, Drachma will demand our arrest- nothing will be helped. So..." He drew in another breath, silencing the urge to look away; his loyal staff deserved better than that.

"...All we can do is turn ourselves in."

They all stiffened.

Varying degrees of horror glimmered in them all and Roy remained silent, just watching them and waiting for them to understand. It was Breda who leaned back first, his top strategist groaning as he covered his face in his hands. "He's right," he mumbled, then swore. "You're right... I guarantee you, Azarov's hope is to corner us before we leave Drachma. He wants us to fight back. Assault or murder of a Drachman military officer is only instigation needed."

"But..." Havoc said slowly, his eyes wide with dread, "if we just hand ourselves over peacefully..."

Roy nodded gravely.

"Then they'll be nothing they can do, either."

It would be both sides trapped at a horrible stand still, one that left him filled with the lead weight of trepidation to realize it was their only option. So far, nothing they had done was severe enough to start a war over. If they gave themselves up peacefully right now, then Amestris would be able to negotiate for their eventual release without setting off any conflicts.

It was the safest choice they had. Not for themselves, but for Amestris.

And each and every one of them had given up the right to make choices for themselves over their country the day they joined the military.

Roy paused, looking around at all of his men individually, clenching his hands and in his lap. "Listen to me," he said at last, infusing his voice with iron authority. "I just want to say now that I can not and will not order any of you to stay with me. None of this should have happened from the start, and not being willing to hand yourselves over to the enemy is not something I'd consider insubordination or cowardice. If any of you still want to try and make it home, I'll offer any assistance I can-"

"Shut up, sir," Havoc inserted calmly, and just by looking at the rest, he could see they all shared the same sentiment.

He sighed.

Honestly?

He couldn't say he was surprised.

"Understood," he returned evenly, bowing his head in silent gratitude.

After a beat of heavy silence, he glanced uneasily over his shoulder to where Hawkeye lay unconscious still, feverish and ill. His chest clenched at what he was about to say, the words tasting like vile poison in his mouth... but it was unavoidable.

As unacceptable as it was unavoidable, but still, _unavoidable._

"However... one of us must return to Amestris immediately." He looked on at her still, suffering form for a moment longer before forcing himself to face his men. "We have to pass on everything that's happened to Fuhrer Grumman so he won't walk into a trap of his own. ...Warrant Officer, if left on your own, are you well enough to make it to the border on your own?"

Falman stiffened, his eyes jerking open again to stare at him. The rest of his staff stared at him as well, obviously takenaback, but it was Falman who protested verbally, the injured man fighting the words out in pained stress and disbelief. "Me?! But Major Hawkeye's condition-"

He stopped the protests with a raised hand, each word piercing him like a knife. "I _know,"_ he snapped, barely able to keep his voice steady. "That is exactly the problem. If left by herself, she wouldn't be able to make it across the border. ...She wouldn't make it even out of the city." He felt his voice about to break and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing a measured breath out. "...After she's arrested with us, she'll at least get proper medical attention."

He was trying to justify handing over his badly wounded, deathly ill, subordinate (his _Riza)_ straight into enemy hands.

He felt sick.

_How have I failed so badly at protecting her?_

_At protecting all of them?_

_Riza..._

_Riza, I'm sorry..._

After several seconds, he forced his eyes open again, looking down to try and meet Falman's gaze- but his warrant officer was no longer looking at him, instead frowning straight ahead, his stare dark and absent of anything, even the pain from his wound, except determination. "No. Send Hawkeye."

Roy stared at him. "You... Vato, now is not the time to be a stubborn fool!" Of course, as hard as it would be to turn themselves over to the Drachmans, it would be even harder to be the one soldier to turn his back on them and run; the move reeked of cowardice and disloyalty- but this wasn't about how Falman _felt._ This was about Amestris.

"He's right, man," Havoc insisted, leaning a little closer to him. "I know you want to protect Hawkeye, but-"

" _No,"_ Falman insisted again, squeezing his eyes shut as if in great pain. "I'm not leaving."

"For god's sakes, Vato!" Roy threw his hands up in exasperation and leaned back, stymied. "Yes, you are! Trust me, I want this even less than you do- but there's not any other option here! If we leave Hawkeye by herself, she could _die!"_

He was reminded for a moment of how his warrant officer had stood up to Bradley himself, baring his access to headquarters in the final hours and citing loyalty to Colonel Mustang as his cause to stand there and die. His death wouldn't have accomplished anything then, not a damn thing, but that hadn't stopped him from trying to offer his life anyway. It wasn't acceptable then, and it wasn't acceptable now. "Vato," he tried again, "listen to me-"

But Falman shook his head again, opening his eyes once more to give him such an imploring gaze it stopped him in his tracks. "She's going to wake up soon, you said. She'll wake up tonight. We can hide her near the outskirts of the city, leave her instructions- she'll figure it out, sir. She'll make it back home... she can do it..." He fell silent then, still just looking up at him desperately, dark eyes set with some sort of pained emotion he could not identify...

This wasn't just so he could stand with them and not have to turn and run. This wasn't just about Hawkeye being injured.

There was something to this he wasn't seeing.

Roy held his silence as well, just looking at him and waiting for the hammer to drop. After several moments, Falman sighed heavily through his teeth, looking away from all of them. A pained sort of resignation came over him and he swallowed, face grim.

"...When I was stationed at Briggs," he began, very softly, his voice heavy, "I heard stories sometimes, about what the Drachman soldiers would do the the women they captured. It was... animal, sir." He paused again, his eyes indescribably pained. "I even... I even _saw_ it once, when we raided one of their camps. ...Sir... please."

...Oh.

_Oh._

That was why.

His heart dropped into his stomach like a leaden weight, and all his previous stubborn insistence dissolved like it'd just been dosed in acid.

Oh.

...Suddenly, he couldn't blame Falman for not wanting to go.

Of course, Roy knew what Falman was saying shouldn't change anything. Logistically speaking, it was still a much safer bet to count on him to get the message back to Amestris and count on the Drachmans to at least keep Hawkeye alive. Logistically speaking, sending Falman gave them a better chance at avoiding war- and he knew that if Hawkeye were awake to say it, she would _demand_ that Falman be sent instead of her.

The soldier in him knew all of that.

And yet...

It didn't matter.

He couldn't do it.

Slowly, Roy looked back over his shoulder, to where Riza lay silently on the ground, breathtakingly fragile- and breathtakingly vulnerable.

He _couldn't_ do it.

She'd kill him for it, yes.

But he still couldn't.

"...Sir?" Falman prodded weakly, his voice unbearably anxious and tense.

Roy sighed, bowing his head.

"When this is all over," he answered at last, voice slightly thick, smile as brittle and pained as it had ever been, "...we're going to be in for the lecture of our lives, men."

There was no reply for a moment, until at last he heard an exhausted, painfully relieved sigh as Falman finally relaxed. He simply continued to look at Riza, his heart squeezed so painfully tight it felt like it was going to burst.

"...Thank you, Vato..." he forced out in a muted whisper, and it was more of a struggle than it should've been to stop his voice from cracking.

It was quiet for several more seconds, until the silence was broken one final time. "No need for thanks, sir. I wouldn't be able to live with myself any other way than this."

_No,_ Roy thought silently, still just watching Riza sleep, _I wouldn't either._

At last, he cleared his throat and rose to his feet. Hands on his hips, he faced his men again and brusquely moved on to business, forcibly pushing back pained gratitude to deal with the situation at hand. "We have work to do, everyone. If this is going to work, we're going to need to write up a summary of everything that's happened with explanations, to give to Riza. Havoc, Breda, Falman- work together on that. Fuery- you need to jerryrig another phone for us, because I have a call to make. Meanwhile, I'm going to go scope out the area- find a safe place to hide Riza." He paused for a moment, watching with an indescribable feeling of pride and affection in his chest as his men all saluted and set about to their new tasks instantly, not questioning him or even hesitating. They simply descended to their tasks and set themselves towards striving to his goal- even when at the end of this day, it would see then imprisoned for it.

He'd chosen them for their loyalty.

Some days, he regretted that.

"I know it'd be offensive of me to thank you, or ask any of you to leave again," he started softly, turning his back to begin gathering his coats off the floor. "You've all more than proven you'll follow me wherever I ask. ...I still want to thank you for doing this for me."

Not because they had no idea what it meant to him. They knew _exactly_ what it meant to him. And that was why they were doing it.

They knew that his ambitions had never been just for Ishval. He wasn't reaching for Fuhrer just to atone for his past... he was aiming to create a better future, as well. So another Ishval would never happen again, and Amestris and her people could become something more than the war machine Bradley had forged them as.

This Drachman war would destroy that future. His men knew that.

And they knew that that future was more important than any one of them, and they were going to stand alongside him, and sacrifice whatever was asked of them to ensure that it wasn't lost forever.

"Aw, Boss," Havoc chided warmly. "You're not going to say it's been an honor to serve with you, are you? I had no idea you could be so sentimentally bullshitty. Please don't be, actually. That's way too lame for you."

Roy closed his eyes for a brief moment, exhaling deeply and relaxing his shoulders. They were doing this for Amestris, yes, but also for him... and so the least he could was not dishonor their commitment to him.

"No," he said firmly, at last turning to face them all again. "I'm not. Because that would imply we're about to make a suicide charge together and this is my last speech as your commander- and that is not what is happening here."

Fuery smiled slightly. "Of course not. Our job is to stop any suicide charges before they happen- not _join_ them. We know you're going to see us home, General."

"Exactly," Breda prodded, then waved him off. "Now, skedaddle. We have work to do and so do you."

Falman held his one good hand up in a silent salute then, quiet as ever but clearly joining his men's united front and grinning as strongly as he could. Roy looked down at them all, shaking his head in disbelief and stubbornly ignoring the warm feeling spreading in his chest, then just moved to help his subordinate upright, firmly taking their words to heart.

He was going to see them home from this, if it was the last thing he ever did.

* * *

Riza was aware of the pain long before she was aware of anything else.

First, it hurt. It hurt in a way she was intimately familiar with, one that left her entirely unsurprised to catch faint, blurred glimpses of Mustang and even fainter whispers of his voice. She tried reaching for him, or even calling his name, desperate to be assured that he was all right, but she lacked the strength to do as much as lift her hand.

God she hurt. She hurt so _bad._

"Riza..."

_Sir..._

First it hurt; then it was cold. Unimaginably so, and she coughed and shook and cried out as she was moved. Mustang was with her then, too, speaking to her, words lost but his voice so low and worried she could cling to it, and she did. _Sir... please..._

She just had to make sure he was okay... _then you can sleep,_ she told her exhausted mind, _then you can rest,_ she told her body even as it cried out in agony. He had to be okay. She had to make sure of that... then... _then..._

"Riza."

_I'm trying, sir..._

"Major Hawkeye."

She opened her eyes.

Her breath caught painfully at the motion and her head rolled, for a moment seeing nothing but blinding white. She fought her way through the blur, moaning miserably, mouth almost nauseatingly dry- but her hard work to cling on paid off, when at last her vision cleared, just enough for her see her commander, sitting by her side.

Her breath caught again.

He wasn't okay.

He wasn't injured, it seemed. He wasn't bleeding, or inordinately pale, or feverish, or- or any of the things she felt at that moment. He seemed quite well. He _seemed_ perfectly all right- but-

He looked... wrong.

Somehow, something- no, _everything_ \- about him was just- just off. He was tired, he was strained, but there was just something in his eyes...

_General,_ she tried to say, but she lacked the strength to even croak a single word.

Mustang, however, did not require her to speak. He slumped a little in relief that she'd even tried, squeezing his eyes shut in great relief and covering his mouth with a pale hand, exhaling shakily. "Thank god," he mumbled, and she didn't realize he'd been holding her hand until he dropped it, leaning back with another shaky sigh.

A moment later he straightened, somehow becoming all business- or attempting to, because he continued to look just _off_ as he lifted up a file for her to see. "When you can, read this," he said carefully, speaking slowly and watching her intently. "It'll explain everything." He laid it down next to her, just within arm's reach, then moved a little, allowing her to see the already assembled sniper rifle lying by her side for her. "For protection." He patted it gently, then gave her a weak, meant to be strong sort of smile. "Hopefully, you won't need it... there's help on the way."

He fell silent then, but still lingered, just watching her- his eyes indescribable. The emotion in them left her silent and unsettled, her nerves rising. What was wrong with him? Why was he talking like this? And where were the others?

Her questions were cut off as her commander leaned forward, pulling a rag tag collection of coats around her tighter like a blanket. He tucked them around her shoulders, suddenly unable to meet her eyes- and her heart lurched when she realized his hands were shaking.

"Si... sir..."

He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut again as if in pain. One of his trembling hands lifted to land lightly on her cheek, so faintly she could barely even feel it, and he leaned closer, for just a heart beat brushing his lips against her own-

Then he was gone, and when he opened his eyes again, there was a cold sort of finality in them that terrified her.

He just looked down at her for a long moment, smiling so sadly she couldn't breathe. "I'm sorry for this, Riza," he said at last, voice quiet and almost strangled with regret.

Then, without another word, he rose to his feet, turned his back, and walked away.

He didn't look back.

* * *

By the time she'd managed to work herself up into some semblance of a sitting position, drag herself painful inch by painful inch over to the nearest window, and manage an exhausted glimpse outside, she was too late.

It was already over.

Mustang had made her a little sniper's nest, perfectly hidden from view, disguised so well even if the Drachmans searched this very building they wouldn't find her. He'd given her a perfect position, too, a perfect line of sight directly down on to where her team all now stood- and she couldn't do a damn thing to help them.

Because Mustang had already given himself over to the Drachmans.

He, Havoc, Breda, Falman, and Fuery were all standing in a line outside the warehouse, shivering in the cold, their hands raised in surrender- save Falman, who was on his knees in the snow, green-faced and barely conscious. Mustang stood before all his men, his face even colder than the ice forming on his face and his eyes dark, without even a hint of fear. There was no emotion there at all as he and all the others accepted their fates, not nerves, not terror, not even resignation. They just stood there as Amestris' guardians, a last stand of five strong men all there was in between her and war.

A last stand that she should've been with, too.

They were completely surrounded by the Drachman military, rifles trained on them from every angle, complete with no less than five snipers hidden away on the rooftops. The one that paced around her men, however, that dangerous, hulking beast with the automail hand...

The man from the train.

They had been set up from the very start.

The man cleared his throat in the dead, terrifying silence. He walked straight up to her commander, standing within an inch of his face.

Mustang didn't even flinch.

"There was one more. Where is she?"

Riza froze.

And Mustang, still, betrayed absolutely nothing.

"No," he said dully, steady stare refusing to waver, body still tense and frozen in the wind. "There was no other."

Without warning, the Drachman swung his metal fist, smashing it straight into Mustang's jaw. It took all her strength not to cry out but Mustang didn't make even a sound. He staggered, twisting violently to the side and only barely, somehow, not hitting the snow facefirst- but he held his balance, and the moment he could, he straightened back up again, hands still raised, and face still blank. He didn't even move to wipe the blood off his chin.

"We saw her! Six of you- now five!" the man roared in heavily accented Amestrian, screaming at her commander still so close to his face she could barely see him at all. "Do not call us stupid, filthy Amestrian! _We saw her!"_

"No," Mustang repeated calmly. "There was no other."

The fist came again, slamming into his face so hard his knees buckled and he sank to the snow. Riza clapped a hand over her mouth, shaking with strain of not running to his aid- but again, Mustang showed no reaction. He swayed for a moment, mouth open a little in shocked pain- then reclaimed his composure as if nothing had ever happened. He climbed steadily to his feet again, looked the Drachamn straight in the face, and said nothing.

Azarov seethed.

"No lie to me, Amestrian. _No lie."_ He raised his fist again, as if to threaten what would happen if a dissatisfactory answer was to come again. "Where. Is. She."

For a moment, Mustang gave absolutely no reaction. He just looked flatly at the Drachman, not flinching away from the fist prepared to strike or even touching the rapid swelling on his cheek and jaw. He just _looked_ at Azarov, and for a moment, Riza was terrified she was going to watch her commander get beaten to death right in front of her.

Then, something in his eyes suddenly turned desperate, and the voice that had been so steady and cold before was now a wretched plea for mercy.

Not for himself.

For her.

"Please," he whispered. Somehow, in the dead, muffled silence of the snow, it still rang out clear to be heard by them all. "Please, Colonel Azarov. She's not just my soldier." He held still for a moment, just standing there, helpless and bleeding and seconds away from death.

Then, he took a breath, and said: "She's my wife, and she's pregnant."

Her heart stopped.

Mustang went on desperately, his eyes wide and imploring, voice shaking under the weight of anguished emotion. "She's two months pregnant. This was her last mission before she retired. Please... please. All she's ever wanted was a family! I sent her away so she could be safe, I swear! That's _all._ Please, sir."

No...

No, he wasn't doing this... he _couldn't..._

Riza's mouth dropped open and she stared at him, trembling in barely restrained grief and horror. She was suddenly, so acutely, so agonizingly, more so than she'd ever been in her life, _helpless_. Helpless to do _anything..._ all she could do was just stand here, and listen to him, because...

"You have to arrest us," Mustang begged. "I know. You have your orders, and I have mine, and we lost to you. I accept that. But _please,_ leave her be. She's pregnant, she's pregnant! Please just let her go home and have our baby. I don't care if you shoot me here and now. I... I just can't let her die like this. I _love_ her! Please! She's my wife, she's my wife, she's my wife... _please, sir!_ Please... just let her go home!"

Because he was lying.

"Please let my wife go!"

Every single word out of his mouth was a lie.

She couldn't even see it on his face. Every facet of him screamed sincerity and honesty, his shoulders trembling with desperation, his voice breaking with anguish, his eyes desperate with the weight of the truth, wide and wet with tears that were freezing in the wind.

And yet, he was _lying._

Azarov said nothing for a moment, just looking at her desperate general, standing in the face of his lies and taking them as truth. It was deathly still and silent, a husband and father's anguished begging for his wife and child ringing out over the gathering and smothering entirely her commander's sacrifice to see her escape. Azarov stood still, he just kept standing there- and for a moment, Riza feared that it might not work, that Mustang had been caught and would be killed for lying- but then-

"You are Amestrian filth," he said coldly, and did not withdraw from Mustang's face. "Your country are pigs to wallow in mud. ...But."

She couldn't stop shaking.

Mustang, however, stood as still as the dead.

"...But," the man gritted out, voice tight with extreme reluctance. "You take care of your woman. That, and only that, I can respect."

It was silent for several more long, agonizing moments.

And then, Azarov turned his back and strode away from her commander. He shouted a sharp order in Drachman to his gathered men and continued walking, not stopping to watch as a group of four left the ranks, moving purposefully towards her general.

When they started hitting him, she had to clap a hand over her mouth to keep the tiny, broken sound of helpless anguish locked in her throat where it belonged.

Mustang still didn't make a single sound. He let them punch and kick without resisting, his face entirely emotionless save for tiny breakthroughs of pain that he so quickly shoved back no one but her saw them. He didn't react, and neither did his men, when they kicked at his chest or his head, tossing him over the snow like an abused, broken rag doll.

He didn't react at all, until the butt of the rifle came down on his head with a resounding, agonizing _smack._

Then, for just the briefest of moments before his eyes fluttered shut and his face fell slack, there was a triumphant smirk.

Her own tears started to freeze.

* * *

_"Ed, can you come over here for a minute? Someone left a message for you on the phone, and I think it's important."  
_

_"Eh? Who? Was it Al?!"_

_"I... don't think so..."_

_Grumbling to himself, Ed trudged back into his house, wiping his hands off as he headed over to go take the phone from Winry and listen to the message. "I swear," he muttered as he lifted it to his ear, "if this is just Ling being a pompous ass again-"_

" _This is a message for the Fullmetal Alchemist. Repeat: This is a message for the Fullmetal Alchemist. Fullmetal," The caller broke off for a moment, listing a string of coordinates that sounded like it placed him in Drachma. Then:_ _"Fullmetal, this is King speaking. Queen needs your help. Repeat: this is King speaking. Queen needs your help."_

_Then the line went dead._

* * *

**After**

**March 11th, 1918**

It had taken three weeks of negotiation to even get the escort into the prison camp.

Even that much had only been because Grumman had insisted to see the prisoners were alive and at least in somewhat good condition before he allowed discussions of prisoner trades to commence any further. Due to the very tentative standing of the truce between their two countries right now, he knew they were safe as he was led into the camp- Drachma would be signing their own death warrant if they turned this into another opportunity to take Amestrian prisoners, and the Fuhrer would have absolutely no choice but to go to war and wipe them out. Not even Drachma was that stupid.

Nevertheless, as Maes was led through the iron gate, a squad of armed, uniformed Dramchan soldiers surrounding him ready to shoot at the slightest provocation, he couldn't help but feel like he was being led in to join these prisoners here, not save them.

The Drachmans led him and Ed through the work camp, taking him past deplorable conditions and miserable men, stuck doing menial tasks that surely served no purpose other than to exhaust them; digging ditches, refilling ditches, building a wall, tearing down a wall... the place rang with strikes of metal on metal, metal on dirt, and the clinking of chains, and Maes shivered, trying hard to block it out. He didn't want to even think about how Ed was taking it; the former alchemist maybe couldn't destroy things with a clap of his hands anymore, but he still couldn't stand human suffering anywhere that he saw it. Maes almost hadn't wanted to bring him along at all- but Grumman had insisted he not go alone, and Hawkeye was still hospitalized, and in no condition to be going anywhere, never mind to a Drachman prison camp. No matter how stringently she'd insisted otherwise.

Besides, the moment Ed had found out this was to be a two man expedition, he'd insisted on coming, and no one, not even the Fuhrer, could tell Ed no when he was like that.

First, the Drachmans took them to the prisoner barracks, where the captured Amestrian soldiers had been sequestered beforehand in preparation for his inspection. He was taken into the stifling, unwelcoming room, and the moment the Drachman soldiers stepped aside to allow him access, Maes almost sagged in relief.

All four of the expected men were there, each haggard and exhausted but whole. For a moment he didn't see anything but that, too frantically relieved to know they were all alive- but then once the moment passed, and he could look at them closer- relief started to fade, and in its place rose hot fury.

Only three were even _conscious._ Breda was still turned onto his side on a cot, shivering underneath a pile of thin blankets. He could see the flush of fever even from here and looked _terrible,_ tossing and turning weakly in his restless sleep. Havoc sat next to him, a protective hand on his shoulder, but he looked even more strained and exhausted than his friend, somehow, like a caged, wild beast ready to strike if someone so much as looked at him the wrong way.

It took him a second to even recognize the smallest of the group as Fuery, the young soldier without his glasses and one eye wrapped up in what was probably the torn sleeve of Havoc's shirt. It looked absolutely filthy, and even underneath it he could see the spreading of a massive bruise, his other eye painfully unfocused as it wondered over in his general proximity. Falman sat next to him, and when Maes' eyes landed on the empty spot that should've been his arm, he was so shocked he nearly reeled back.

Beside him, Ed let out a quiet, strangled curse, and for a moment, he could almost feel the young man itching to hit someone.

The small, close, exhausted group all jerked in varying degrees of surprise when they saw at him, staring at him from beneath dark bruises and smeared cuts, blinking and shocked at his presence- shocked, and not relieved.

Maes' finally recovered himself, and his eyes narrowed.

"Did they not tell you I was coming?" he asked the soldiers, and when all he got were mute shakes of heads, he resisted the urge to curse. Drachman bastards. Just because they were being forced into giving up their prisoners did not mean they had to like it. "Men, Amestris has been negotiation a trade for several weeks now. It's not happening today; today I'm only being allowed to make sure you're all still alive- but it's going to happen. Soon."

He wasn't really sure what he had expected, but the still, uncomfortable, dark silence that followed his words certainly hadn't been high up on his list.

Of course, they'd known this would be happening, having sent Hawkeye back with word to the Fuhrer. Roy was an obvious favorite of his and Grumman would've done everything he could to get them home as soon as possible. Still, it was a little unsettling how, rather than react joyfully to the news, Falman and Fuery just sat back a little, seeming quietly exhausted rather than relieved, and Havoc turned his attention back to his ailing friend again, anxiously concerned but silent.

Ed moved forward first, stepping out from behind him and striding forward to Falman's side, pulling at his sleeve to examine the stump of his arm. His eyes were cold with muted fury but his hands were steady, and Falman only tried a weak, token protest before Ed's glare shut him up. Wincing at the sight of his empty arm, Maes staunchly turned away and made for Breda instead, rolling up his sleeves. "Is he all right?" he asked Havoc tensely.

Havoc shrugged uncertainly, keeping his eyes averted. "By this point, I don't know. He's been sick for a while now. ...God damn idiot probably would've been fine, but he just wouldn't tell us until it was too late..." He trailed off into silence then gave a muffled curse, pressing his hand over his eyes. "I'm going to kill him."

Maes paused, glancing back uncertainly at the leering squad of soldiers behind him. "Did the Drachmans-"

"No." The captain shook his head and shifted a little in between him and Breda, though he made no move to stand. "None of this is a violation of the prisoner treaty. Whatever you do, don't you dare let those sons of bitches start a war over us, Hughes." His grip on his friend's shoulder tightened when the man groaned in his sleep, tossing and turning yet again.

Of course, he was right.

At this point, short of shooting them all dead, nothing Drachma did would be enough to justify war. Not because Grumman couldn't make the argument- but because Maes and Hawkeye wouldn't allow it. They knew what these soldiers had given up to ensure that didn't happen, what Roy would do to them if they let war come because of him. They would not let anything come between them and peace now.

"What about Mustang?" Ed asked from behind him, his voice grim. "Why's he not here?"

As one, everyone in the small, beaten group stiffened.

Maes fell still, his heart clenching.

_Oh, no..._

"...Is he okay?" he ventured nervously after a moment, when no reply came. "He... he _is_ all right, isn't he?"

Falman and Fuery both looked away uncomfortably, refusing to answer. Havoc, however, met his eyes straight on, his eyes darkening and hands clenching into vicious fists as he glared murderously at the Drachman soldiers behind him. "We haven't seen him since we got here, sir."

Or, five weeks ago.

Maes paled.

"They're claiming it's because he's an alchemist," the captain continued on darkly, clearly livid. "Too dangerous to have him doing work, you know- requires free hands." He raised his own bleeding, abused ones with a scowl. "But that's just what they're saying. ...Sir..." Havoc gave him a significant glance, gaze heavy with hidden meaning, but Maes just didn't know enough of the situation to piece it together and he gave the man a helpless, apologetic look. Clearly, he couldn't say everything that they knew- not with their Drachman audience.

Fuery cleared his throat hesitantly, seemingly reluctant. "But, we- well..."

"Fuery?" he started, glancing back at the beaten lieutenant.

Fuery chewed his lip and looked away, his hands shaking. "It's just... last week, we... we heard him, sir."

"...Heard him?" he queried uncertainly, brow furrowing.

Fuery nodded, pale and almost frightened. "Yes," he nearly squeaked, and didn't say anything more than that.

It was Havoc who elaborated, and this time, the dark, cold fury in his eyes had grown so much even Maes was almost afraid of him. "Screaming, sir. ...We heard him screaming all night long."

His heart dropped again.

Maes only recovered himself by Ed starting furiously towards the Drachman soldiers, his fists clenched and looking about to punch one of them. He caught the young man around the chest and held him back before he could make this situation that much worse for them all and faced Azarov, keeping a firm grip on Ed's shoulder all the while. _"What is he talking about?"_ he nearly snarled, desperately trying to keep his voice steady.

Azarov gave him a blithe, disgustingly smug shrug. _"Don't recall,"_ he said through a grin, and Maes seethed.

" _If you have done anything to harm him-"_

" _I assure you, his condition is fine,"_ Azarov snapped, but there was just something about that smug grin that told him there was a lot more to his answer- a lot more that he didn't like. _"But you've talked enough with them. They're alive. That's all you need. Now, come on."_

Maes stiffened but forced himself to not throw the hand off. He was in hostile territory right now, and needed to remember that any wrong move he made would be taken out on these soldiers- either with further abuse the moment he left if he was lucky, or jeopardizing their release if not. He _needed_ to stay calm.

" _General Mustang now,"_ he snapped back in their rough language, keeping his voice crisp and devoid of emotion. He waited until he saw the annoyed irritation cross their eyes, as if they didn't want to comply but knew they had to, to look back over his shoulder at the men, raising his voice to shout even as he forced back outside again. "Give it another week! Give it one more week, and you'll be out of here- and so will Mustang!"

The soldiers near manhandled him and Ed out into the freezing winter air before he could get out more than that, but it was all he'd needed to say, so Maes hid his triumphant grin underneath a scowl and shrugged them off, pulling his coat tighter around him as he did so. He tried to quell his unease as they were led back across the compound towards one of the other buildings, this one guarded by even more soldiers. Havoc and the men were all still alive, and while royally pissed off and abused, would be all right. They'd all been horribly hurt, and it would take them a long while to really recover, but they would survive, at least. They'd be okay. So, Roy should be as well, shouldn't he? And as much as it worried him, it _did_ make sense the Drachmans wouldn't be stupid enough to allow a dangerous alchemist out and about with free hands- for all he knew his friend was just pacing around indoors somewhere, losing his mind, nearly spitting fire.

Yes, he told himself, tugging firmly on his jacket. Yes, Roy had to be fine.

_We heard him screaming all night long._

His gut churned uneasily, and Maes swallowed.

The Drachmans led him and Ed into the new building, a dank, dark, miserable space, lit only by a single, swaying lightbulb that was flickering on and off and clearly on its last legs. It wasn't any warmer any here and Maes pulled his jacket tighter around him again, following the soldiers down the dark hallway, listening to their footsteps ring against the metal floor like a death toll and squirming with the sense of trepidation that rose with every step.

At last, the soldiers came to a stop before a single cell at the very end of the hallway, and parted for him to see.

Maes and Ed both gasped.

If the Drachmans hadn't led him here, he could've missed the fact that it was his friend entirely. Even as it was, he barely recognized him- and when he _did_ find his friend beneath all the layers of filth and grime, his blood boiled.

Roy was slumped in a cold corner, curled over on himself and only held upright by the wall. His hands and feet were both in shackles, wrists constrained by the wooden ones typical for alchemist prisoners while ankles were clothed in iron, both restraints stained with dark blood. One thumb was bruised black and hung at a severely awkward, broken angle that made him wince, and that arm was also malformed- possibly broken as well, and held in that position by the shackles, it _had_ to hurt. And as if those restraints had not been enough, he'd been blindfolded, too.

He was also shivering violently, even curled up as much as he could into himself for warmth. The prison uniform was splattered with blood and badly torn; it didn't even hide the huge bruises on his chest and stomach and was surely not enough to provide him with any sort of cover.

" _What the hell is this?"_ Maes hissed, rage coursing through him from head to toe.

" _Don't know what you mean,"_ Azarov replied, smirking just a little. _"He's alive, as we said."_

Maes gritted his teeth, fists clenching. That smug _bastard!_ _"Barely, in these conditions! Doesn't he even get a blanket?! He'll freeze to death!"_

The soldier smirked again. _"We gave him one, Colonel,"_ he said, pointing towards a thin pile of cloth in one corner of the cell. _"It's his choice whether he wants to use it or not."_

Maes' eyes widened in disgust. _"How's he supposed to reach that? He can barely move, and... you... you blindfolded him- does he even KNOW it's there?!_ "

The soldier just smiled again.

Absolutely seething with rage, trembling with the just barely restrained urge to punch the man, Maes pointed at the cell door, teeth clenched in fury. _"Open it."_

" _I don't think so."_

Maes whirled back on the leader, fists trembling again. _"These conditions are unacceptable. Either you open that door for me immediately, or I pass on just how badly you're treating our general to the Fuhrer. Do you fire off the opening shot in this war, Colonel?!"_

Azarov glared at him so darkly that if the circumstances would've been any different, Maes would've withdrawn a knife to protect himself- but this was not an occasion to dare attempt any violence, so instead Maes held his ground, glaring insistently, and just pointed furiously at the cell again.

At last, Azarov gave in.

Roy flinched a little at the sound of jangling keys in the lock, shifting further back into his corner and pulling his knees closer to his chest, cringing back. Maes just barely resisted the urge to shout at the Drachmans again, instead forcing back his anger for afterwards so he could concentrate on helping Roy.

He went for the blanket first, yanking the flimsy thing off the ground and going to wrap it around him, but Roy flinched and jerked at being touched, head whipping back so hard it hit the wall with a painful sounding _smack._ He gasped hoarsely, lips moving in several wordless croaks before he gave up trying to speak, and Maes' eyes widened.

" _Do you even give him any water?!"_ he spat.

Azarov smiled nastily. _"Of course, Colonel. We're not animals. He just has to ask for it."_

It took him several moments to realize what the hidden line was here- but when he did, it took every ounce of his self control to not take his weapon out and start firing.

" _In Drachman."_

The soldier's smirk widened. _"Yes. In Drachman."_

If the lives of so many men hadn't been riding on his self control in that one moment, Maes honestly did not think he would've been able to stop himself from hitting him.

He wanted to kill them.

" _HE DOESN'T SPEAK ANY DRACHMAN!"_

His near shout got a few more smirks from the Drachmans, Azarov himself nearly beaming at him in sick enjoyment- but Roy flinched, giving another rattling gasp and pulling even further away, pressing himself back into the corner. A few weak croaks issued from his throat and Maes' heart ached at the obvious terror.

Of course. After so many weeks of probably being spoken only to in Drachman, blindfolded and restrained as he was, his only cues towards what was coming would've been tone of voice- shouting angrily was _not_ a good idea. After a deep, shaking, breath, Maes forced some measure of calm and returned his burning glare to Azarov, raising his hand in a point again. _"Get me some water. Now."_

Once again, the soldier looked extraordinarily annoyed and reluctant, and it took him several seconds, but he did finally turn and pass off the command to one of his men. Rather than wait for it to be followed, Maes returned all attention to Roy, lowering his voice to keep it as soft and soothing as possible. "Hey, Roy, easy," he spoke calmly- even then, his voice tremoring with sorrow and sympathy that he couldn't hold back. "It's all right, it's just me. Maes."

Roy, however, didn't respond in the slightest, or if he did it was so small Maes couldn't see it. He frowned for a second, hesitant, then cleared his throat again. "Don't try to talk. I'm getting you some water in a second." He raised a hand, leaving it hovering near his cheek. "I'm going to take off the blindfold, okay?"

Roy didn't respond that time, either; he just sat there, frozen in uncertain, exhausted pain and confusion, and, forcing back his sickened anger, Maes pulled at the edge of the blindfold, gently lifting it up to settle against his forehead. He winced at the darkly bruised eyes that were revealed; one was swollen shut, blindfold or no, marked by an arc of blue and red bruises; the other was almost as bad, taking Roy several seconds for him to crack it open even a sliver, revealing a bloodshot stare hazed with fear and fatigue.

It stared straight through him, and made zero attempt to focus on him.

Thrown once again, Maes froze for a second, then forced himself to smile, chalking it off to confusion. His insides ached and he gently pushed at hand at filthy, overgrown bangs, moving them out of the way to feel for fever, then pressing a hand to his neck when he found none. His pulse was steady, too, even if his skin was almost frighteningly cold... and while infuriating, his injuries didn't seem to be that severe. Why did he seem so out of it?

Meanwhile, Roy just stared past him blankly, swaying and blinking, almost not present at all. Maes hesitated for a moment, frowning, then tried speaking to him again, hoping to draw him out of it. "We're getting you out of here, okay?" he soothed, letting his hand rest against a freezing cheek. "We're negotiating with the Drachmans right now. We're going to get you home, Roy."

Roy's mouth moved soundlessly at that, voice still failing him, but somehow, Maes didn't get the feeling that his friend was really trying to address him at all. He didn't get the chance to find out, however, because a moment later, Maes found himself being pushed aside by a returning Drachman soldier, wielding a cup of water of very questionable quality. _"Here, damn Amestrian filth,"_ he swore at Roy, shoving the cup at his mouth.

Roy coughed and spluttered in a panic, choking on the sudden liquid flooding his mouth and struggling, trying to turn his head away; the water dribbled down his chin and intermingled with dried blood in dirty trails and Maes swore, snatching the water and nearly punching the soldier to get him to back off.

" _Hey! You can't-"_

" _No, YOU can't!"_ Maes snapped, whirling to kneel protectively in front of his friend, eyes blazing in hatred. _"You listen to me. You give me five minutes with him, right now, or I will bring down the full weight of our army down on you and have the world know you instigated it. You know what Mustang can do? You know what our Flame Alchemist can do?! Unless you want us to bring that to your cities, your civilians, your INNOCENTS, you WILL back off and give me five minutes with him. Now!"_

After all, Azarov didn't have to know that Amestris' primary goal in this entire venture was to avoid war, and it would take a lot more than slighting him with this request to jeopardize that.

After several tense seconds, the tense standoff dissolved into a very reluctant ceasefire, and Maes turned back away from them, crouching back in front of Roy. His friend was trembling again, pressing himself back into the corner again and still coughing, weakly spitting out water.

"Easy," he murmured again, lifting the cup himself. Not much remained, but in his state, the general probably couldn't handle even that much. "Here, come on." He gently situated an arm around Roy's shoulders, dragging him to sit upright against him only as much as he needed to, nudging the cup against his slack lips slightly. He tried to give his friend a small trickle but Roy jerked, fighting to lean forward and take the whole thing at once.

"Slow down, slow down," he cautioned, voice threatening to break. "It's okay, we have a few minutes." He gave him a small amount then pulled the cup back, wincing inwardly at the whine of frustration as Roy tried to reach for more.

"M... M... Ma..."

"Easy," he whispered again, giving him another small sip. He glared darkly at the watching Drachmans and spoke quickly, hating that he couldn't end this now and would have to leave Roy here with them in just a few minutes. "Listen to me, Roy. We're going to get you out of here soon. Just another week, okay? I probably won't be able to come back, and they'll probably tell you the deal went south as soon as I'm gone- but trust me on this. Trust me, Roy. We're getting you out of here as soon as we can, okay?"

Roy's head lolled in apparent exhaustion, one open eye glazed and fatigued. "Maes..." he rasped weakly, his voice barely audible- but it was vague and unclear, and it still didn't feel like Roy was talking to him at all. "Jean... Heymans... V- Va..."

"They're all okay, Roy," Maes told him, swiftly cutting off the painful attempts at speech with another small sip. "I've already seen them. They're okay, and we're getting them out, too."

But Roy slumped a little more, still not even looking at him. "Jean... Heymans... Vato... Kain..."

Even so drained, the pain in his voice was so apparent in felt like Roy was stabbing him in the chest. Maes' fists clenched and he carefully gave him the rest of the water, pulling Roy a little tighter against him and desperately wishing he could just hold him there and not let go. "Roy, what's wrong? They're okay," he repeated, unsure of what else to say. "They're okay, I just saw them five minutes ago."

"J... Jean.."

Maes cursed inwardly. Roy was just too out of it now for him to him to get through to him, he realized, not with the very limited time he had. Whatever it was that had him so upset was not going to be good, he was sure- but Azarov wasn't going to tell him, and Roy seemed incapable of it now. He would just have to wait.

He paused for a moment, biting back the anger that tried to rise and holding stiff the knife he wanted to throw.

He was going to _kill_ those bastards.

Somehow pushing back the anger once again, Maes retrieved the fallen blanket from before and pulled it as tightly around Roy's shoulders as he could. It wouldn't accomplish much but it had to be better than the nothing he currently had; surely, like this, in these harsh winters, he spent most nights nearing hypothermia. "Listen to me, Roy," he said firmly, tucking the ragged quilt under his chin, "this is important. Next time you want water, you _tell_ them, and they'll have to give it to you. Repeat after me: _vah-die._ That's how you ask them: _vah-die._ Come on, Roy, say it."

Roy groaned exhaustedly, chin dropping down to his chest and hair falling over his eyes again. Cursing, Maes lifted his head up again as gently as he could and held his hand to his cheek, forcing Roy to look at him. "No. You can sleep later; right now, say it. Tell me what you say if you want water."

His brow furrowed in exhausted annoyance, but this time, his black eye drifting tiredly over him in uncertain confusion before it actually focused on him for the first time, and his heart leapt. _"Vah-die,"_ his friend mumbled hoarsely, shivering.

Maes nodded slightly, gently thumbing over the man's beaten brow. "Again."

" _Vah-die,"_ Roy muttered, with slightly more strength than before. _"Vah... vah-die."_

He sighed, slumping a little in relief. "You better remember that, Roy."

Roy's head sagged onto his chest again, eye flickering tiredly shut. "Maes..." he rasped weakly, shivering again. "J- Jean..."

Maes' breath caught at the quiet, listless hopelessness drifting through his voice, and as he watched, Roy's eye left him, staring vacantly through him rather than at him once again. "Roy," he started again, his voice trembling.

" _Time's up, Amestrian."_

Maes flinched. His heart pounding, he barely managed to keep himself under control; he somehow forced his face into a trembling smile and met Roy's eye again, still palming his cheek. "I'm sorry, I have to go, Roy. I'm sorry- but I'll be back, I promise. Now, tell me again what you say if you want water?"

Roy groaned, clearly only on the edge of consciousness, voice dry and cracking. _"Vah... vah-die..."_

He sighed in relief again. "Good. You remember that, Roy." Then, his hands shaking, Maes carefully pulled the blindfold back down as gently as he could, hating himself for it but knowing it was necessary. The Drachmans would doubtlessly be far rougher doing it, and besides, he wanted to be the last thing Roy saw- not those _bastards._ That done, Maes swallowed the lump in his throat and pulled Roy close in the tightest embrace that he dared, pressing his cheek against the side of his head. "I promise," he breathed by his ear, so quiet not even the Drachmans could hear, "We're coming back for you. Just hang on for a little bit longer, okay? We're coming back for you."

Roy's head lolled back against the wall drearily, the general somehow looking even more dejected and alone than when Maes had first seen him. His mouth closed and he slumped back into himself, looking for all the world like an abandoned corpse.

It took all of Maes' strength to stand up, walk back, and leave his friend alone on the cell floor as he turned his back and marched away.

Once they'd finally escaped the prison, walking out into the brisk cold wind again and shivering at the air, Maes glanced down to Ed. He slowed when he saw the young man shaking by his side, trembling so much it was almost like he was vibrating, his head bowed and his breaths unsteady.

Maes swallowed the lump in his throat, pushing back his own anger to deal with Ed's. He lifted up a hand to rest it on his shoulder, trying to keep his voice steady. "Ed, it's all right. I know it seems bad, but he's going to be okay, we just..."

He trailed off into nothing at another sharp intake of breath, voice failing him when Ed jerked his head up again- and now, he could see that he was not upset.

"Hughes," Ed hissed between clenched teeth. His voice was low and seething, a growled, primal sort of declaration of fury, fisted hands now shook violently down by his sides and his eyes burned as they bored straight into Azarov's back.

The bloodlust in them so dark it chilled him to his core.

"I have never wanted to kill someone more than I do right now, Hughes."

His fingers twitched, as if they were eager to wrap around the son of a bitch's throat.

After a moment, Maes swallowed again, delicately removing his hand from the furious man's shoulder, and kept on walking.

* * *

**Roy**

Maes had come by to see him.

Possibly.

He wasn't all too sure how real it had been, actually.

Much of what he saw lately wasn't real.

That had been several days ago, by his best guess. He wasn't really too sure about how time passed, though. It wasn't as clear anymore. Azarov didn't seem as dictated by whether it was day or night; just sometimes he would be there, sometimes not. It no longer felt like the Drachman would leave him alone for hours at night and then torment him from dawn till dusk after that; he just flitted in and out, there one hour and gone the next. It had been like this since...

No.

He didn't let himself think about that.

So. Point being, Maes hadn't been real.

But he had a blanket now. That hadn't been there before. Hell of a lot of good it did him; Roy didn't even remember what being warm felt like anymore but he was damn sure this wasn't it. But he remembered Maes giving him that...

He sighed.

He remembered lots of things, lately. He wasn't sure whether any of them were real or not.

"Nothing more to say anymore, Mustang?"

His body flinched away. The flinch made all the little broken parts of him cry out, and he tilted his head to the side a little, almost intrigued by the pain.

Ah. Azarov was here, again. By the sound of it, actually, he had been for a while.

He sounded annoyed, like he thought he was being ignored.

Ha.

Azarov grunted at not being given even a single word to punish, pacing closer to him. Again his body flinched back of its own accord, mouth moving soundlessly; his throat hurt too much to actually speak and even if it hadn't, his voice wasn't there anymore. But Azarov saw it, and he laughed anyway, pulling his head back by the hair again to get within an inch of his face. "What- you want me to stop? Is that what you want?"

_No._

_I don't care anymore._

_Do whatever you want._

Azarov laughed again, tugging painfully hard on his hair a second time. "Hmm... you've been well-behaved, recently, Mustang. So, I tell you. _Ostanavis._ That's how you ask us to stop. _Ostanavis."_

What? Perhaps this was not real as well. Maes had done that, too; taught him to say something. But Maes had reason to... though it didn't matter; that hadn't been real, regardless...

"Still nothing to say, Mustang? How's it you say- dog got your tongue?"

_Cat,_ he thought dully, but the word made no attempt to be heard. _It's cat, you useless, miserable, pathetic fuck-up of a man. It's cat._

This time, the laugh tapered off into a little growl of frustration, punctuated by a another blow to his head. _"Zedealy eta, Mustang,"_ he cursed, but his heart wasn't even in it, " _zedealy bly eta."_

What a joke.

"Not that funny a joke, man," Havoc sassed quietly, and in his mental image of the room his captain fizzled into existence from smoke sitting in the opposite corner. "No one's laughing."

Roy laughed quietly under his breath, rolling his head over to look at him. Havoc gave him an amused look for a moment, then just rolled his eyes.

"Fine. No one's laughing except for you."

"You know, I always thought your sense of humor sucked, sir," Breda chimed in, and Roy glanced over, watching idly as his strategist materialized next to Azarov. Breda tsked at him a little, then calmly planted his hands on his shoulders and pushed him away like a cart on wheels, nudging the Drachman away and out of sight. The irritated shouts of the Drachman, already faded, vanished entirely now, and Roy lay his head back, grinning lazily past the deep ache in his chest.

_I'm in charge,_ he thought, his voice again utterly absent. _Your opinion of my sense of humor is utterly irrelevant. If I make a joke, it's automatically funny. Fuery agrees, don't you, Fuery?_

His lieutenant appeared sitting next to Havoc, smiling brilliantly. "Absolutely, sir!" he exclaimed, and Roy gave a firm nod, pleased.

A little bit of blood leaked down from his hairline, escaping from a recent bullet hole, and Roy watched as it trailed down his face, marring his innocent grin.

"You're quite gruesome today, General," Falman commented dryly, reclining against the wall near the exit. He calmly raised an eyebrow at him, blood leaking from his own headshot, and Roy frowned a little, shifting against his corner.

_Well, what can I say. If you wanted cheerfulness, maybe you should've tracked down Maes to harass instead of me._

Havoc shuddered violently. "And endure all those pictures? No thanks, sir. I'd sooner kill myself." Then he paused, giving him a small, sardonic grin, and tilted his head to the side- blood bursting out of the wound in his forehead. "Eh, poor choice of words, I suppose, General."

He didn't sound very apologetic.

_I'm cold_ , he thought at them instead. _Mind taking me outside?_ He'd been cold ever since he'd ended up in this country, but it had been worse, so much worse, ever since-

...

He didn't think about that.

A beat of silence passed, and then, all four of his men smirked at him. "Now, you know it doesn't work that way, sir," Breda chided, but he could tell they were all thinking it, and he sighed, leaning his head back against his wall.

"But are you getting tired of us?" Havoc raised an eyebrow with another smirk. "If that's the case, we can always invite your other friend back in."

Roy scowled at him. What was that word? Stop? "Ostanavis," he muttered, pulling himself up into a little smaller ball. _Don't be an ass, Havoc._

Fuery winced, clapping a hand over his mouth. "Don't say anything, sir, then he really will come back."

"Oh, whatever. Who cares if he comes back. It's the general, he can handle a punch or two." Breda shot him a broad grin. "Can't you, sir?"

_It's not that I'm worried about. It's the metal fist. Pretty sure it already broke my face- remember, when-_

_..._

"Ah. Let me guess." Havoc raised an eyebrow, smirking a little. "We don't think about that."

A streak of warm blood swam down the left side of his face, not disturbing his grin in the slightest, and Roy's own smile died.

Breda cleared his throat, glowering at him. "Quit being an ass, Havoc."

"Yeah, who invited you here, again?"

Havoc wilted, moaning as he buried his head in his hands. "You guys are awful. You all make fun of me. Why can't you gang up on someone else for a change?"

"You pretty much ask us for it, you know," Breda chuckled quietly, smirking, and Havoc moaned again.

Fuery raised a hand quietly from his corner, unfurling from his little ball a little. "If my opinion matters," he started, his voice small, "it's more that he's just really, really unlucky... and the General keeps stealing all his girlfriends..."

Havoc beamed, and even as the rest of the group laughed again the blond stood up, waving his hands dramatically. "Yes- yes! That's what I've been saying! Finally, _someone_ gets it." He cast a glare around them all and huffed, making his way towards Fuery. "I'm going to sit over here now. The rest of you can go to hell. ...Well..." he amended as an absentminded afterthought, tilting his head to the side, "I guess we're kinda already there?"

Roy froze for a second, blood pounding in his ears, and Havoc gave him a hard, sardonic grin before mollifying at his stare, softening the brutal blow into one that he could take, instead.

"I mean, I'm just saying, Mustang, your head's already pretty synonymous with hell..."

Roy paused for a moment, eventually deciding to take offense rather than face what Havoc was actually trying to say. _Quit insulting my head. It's pretty. Prettier than you'd ever manage yourself._

Havoc snorted, rolling his eyes. "Think you got a concussion, pretty boy."

_...Quite possibly,_ he admitted tiredly, leaning his head back against the wall. _But at least if my brain's bleeding, I'll still look pretty while doing it._

"Egocentric pretty boy," Havoc muttered, grinning in amusement, and Roy chuckled quietly along with the rest of his men, shrugging his sore shoulders. Well, he wasn't wrong...

Breda huffed, glaring around at them all. "Quit laughing, you lot. It's making it harder for me to keep Azarov outside."

Fuery fell silent instantly, clapping a hand over his mouth; Falman let out another soft chuckle, still seeming amused- and Havoc smirked. "You talk like Azarov can hear any of us besides Mustang, you idiot," he said, then shot him a grin. "Come on, tell him off, Roy-boy. Azarov can't hear us, right? Why can't hear he us?"

"But he's right..." Moaning over from the floor, Fuery pulled his knees up to his chest again, burying his head in them. "Mustang, stop making noise... he'll come back..."

" _Zedealy eta, zedelay eta, suhcara, bly suchka,"_ Falman quoted, almost eerily calm. He waved a hand, not really looking at any of them. "I can hear him. He's getting louder. Real mouth on him, he has... he's getting louder."

Fuery moaned again, burying his head away even tighter. His hair was soaked and dripping with blood, his hands caked with it. "Make him stay away... make him stay away... make him-"

"But we can't do that, Fuery," Havoc interrupted, lecturing him as if he was speaking to a very small child. "We can't." He returned his attention to Roy, still grinning a little- his lips and teeth stained red. "Why can't we do that, Mustang?"

"Make him stay away..."

_Oi, shut up, Havoc,_ Roy thought, glaring shakily towards him. _You're scaring Fuery._

"No I'm not. You can't scare the dead, Mustang."

With an eerie sort of crack, the room shifted by a degree, and his heart stopped.

All of them were shot in the head. Blood splattered all _over_ their ruined faces, all over, all over, all over. Fuery started rocking back and forth even harder, drowning in a puddle of his own blood, sinking into the floor until he'd nearly been swallowed up by it. "Make him stay away, make him stay away," he begged, but no one listened to him, and Roy couldn't help him. Falman calmly spat out bubbles and drools of it as he quoted Azarov, head tilting rhythmically back and forth.

" _Zedealy eta,"_ he sang, lilting through it like a lullaby, _"zedealy eta, zedealy eta..."_

Breda cursed, trying to throw himself towards the door but only slipping and flailing in his own blood, scrabbling like a madman. "Idiots!" he shouted at them all, waving a violent fist until it slammed with an earth-shattering crack into the wall. Dust rained down from overhead and Roy started coughing, hacking up the dust through his dry throat. _Breda,_ he tried to say, _Breda, stop,_ but he didn't have a voice-

And Havoc was still grinning at him, bloody smile painted on his destroyed face like the most macabre painting he'd ever seen in his life.

"We're dead, Mustang," he reminded, then choked on another laugh- choked on it so violently he coughed up blood, and laughed again, kept on laughing and laughing and laughing.

No, no... no, there was too much blood! This wasn't right- but he could fix it! He had to fix it! They were fine, they were fine, he'd make them okay- if he could just- somehow-

"Vah-die!" he cried, bolting upright. "Vah-die, vah-die!" Yes, water! He could clean up all the blood, make them clean again- that was all he had to do, and they'd be fine! He could fix-

" _Nooo, nooo, nooo, noooo!"_ Fuery moaned. He sank deeper into his blood and sobbed, shaking his head back and forth in abject terror. "No, you said it, you said it! Now he's coming back! He's coming!"

"I can't stop him!" Breda roared at him, enraged. "What the hell's your problem?! Why'd you do that, moron?!"

" _Zedealy eta, zedealy eta, zedealy eta..."_

And Havoc laughed.

Roy stared at them in increasing horror, his heart sinking to the pit of his stomach. Why were they upset with him? He was trying to help! That was all- he had to help them, didn't they see, he _had_ to, just get rid of the blood, if he could just get rid of the blood-

_(let me out, let me out, let me out)_

-he'd make it all better again, if he could just-

"Vah-die!" he shouted again, then he screamed it when the blood splattered him in the face. _"Vah-die, vah-die!"_

"General, stop it! Stop it stop it stop it!"

"He's coming... he's getting louder... _zedealy eta, Mustang..."_

" _Shut up,_ will you?! Just _shut up_ before he kills us again!"

_No- no no no- no no no no no no_

"Can't kill us again, Heymans!" Havoc shouted, near howling in laughter. "We're already dead!"

_No no no no nonononono_

_(let me out let me out let me out)_

_nononono nooooo nonono NO!_

Then the door banged open, and with a flash, each and every one of his dead soldiers was gone, and the room was pitch black again.

"... _Vah-die, vah-die, Mustang,"_ Azarov was saying, voice rough, and Roy reeled violently back, shaking and gasping. " _Suchara._ Fine. You get your water, _suchka bly."_

And then, just like it had been when Maes had been here, the Drachman yanked back on his head and forced the dirty steel of a cup to his lips, ice-cold water flooding his mouth and throat without him being given even a second to prepare.

He coughed and spluttered this time, too, trying to yank his head away, but his strength had been failing for him a long time now and he couldn't even dislodge Azarov's fingers from his hair. He choked on it, throat spasming as he tried to swallow and hacked up more than made it down; he couldn't-

"You'll die here, you pathetic rat." Azarov's fingers tightened in his hair, pulling his head even more severely back. Another gush of ice cold water flooded his mouth, and he choked until he couldn't breathe. "You'll die here. Just like your men."

_No..._

_No, no, no..._

_they're not dead..._

_that's not... true..._

"Sweet dreams, General Mustang, sir," Havoc laughed, and with that, he finally succumbed to the lack of air and dropped.

_Let... me... out..._


	6. Chapter 6

**March 18th, 1918**

When Azarov came for him again, Roy was too empty to do anything but let the soldier grab him by the arm and drag him.

The colonel limped his way rudely in, interrupting the mental game of tic-tac-toe he had going on with himself, desperately trying to take his mind off the exhaustion and the cold. He heard the man coming and briefly considered putting up a fight, he really did- but in the end, said nothing, did absolutely _nothing,_ except sit there and let it happen.

At this point, what point was there in resisting?

There was nothing worse Azarov could do to him.

The colonel grabbed him by the unbroken arm, this time, jerking him up and out into the hallway without a word. It still wasn't a fun journey, down the steel floor of the hallway. It was bumpy and his head bounced painfully down on it over and over again, but it was still far above the last time he'd been taken outside-

No.

Didn't think about that.

Azarov cursed and seethed at him the whole time, always in Drachman. Roy let him without comment, shutting his eyes under the blindfold and head lolling on his shoulders. It didn't matter where he was going. His gloves would work anywhere. He'd burn Azarov anywhere. He'd...

No, not yet.

"Not yet, not yet, Mustang," he heard a ghost of Havoc's voice chide, and he nodded slightly, head still lolling.

Not yet.

A few moments later, Azarov hauled him out onto the snow, exposed to the howling wind and yanked into outdoors once again. His breath quickened and he shook his head suddenly, curling his legs a little underneath him. No, no... Oh, god, not again...

_Let me out-_

But this time when he was tossed it wasn't into a grave. He hit the snow on his side and rolled a bit, smashing painfully into a crust of ice. A little muted groan issued weakly out from his throat, stiffening from the pain of it, preparing for another blow- but none came.

" _Zedealy eta, bly Mustang,"_ Azarov snarled, and then he was gone.

Roy tilted his head to the side a little, confused and frightened and unsure and lost. He flexed his gloved hands slightly, then just sighed in defeat, curling up tighter into the snow. He pulled his knees as close to his chest as he could and ducked his head, shivering in the cold, and decided to just lie there and wait. Azarov would be back. Whatever his newest plan was, it would play out soon. He always came back.

He had no choice except to wait.

* * *

Azarov didn't come back.

His men did, though.

His loyal, perfect men.

They sat with him in the snow, their usual positions in his little bloody sanctuary no longer options so instead they just sprawled out over the ice. He huddled there with them, shivering violently and curled up as tightly as he could while they watched on sympathetically, unable to help. Even through the blindfold, he could tell it had been at least several hours; the sunlight was so glaring in Drachma, blinding as it reflected off the snow and wrenching its way a little past the blindfold, but now even that weak glare was gone. It was dark now, and had been for a while. The only thing he could see was his men around him, his breath misting in the air while theirs was frighteningly absent.

He missed Maes' blanket.

"What do you figure he's after?" Breda ventured, folding his legs in the snow. "Wants you to try to light a fire, keep yourself warm?"

_Probably,_ Roy admitted, wishing desperately the alchemy shackles let him pull his hands close enough to try and warm them up with his breath. He was absolutely, positively, _miserably_ cold.

Havoc grinned. "Well if that's all it is, you'll be fine, Boss. You've had worse nights here, haven't you?"

Breda glared at his friend, whacking him on the head lightly before he could go on. "Remember, you can't risk it, sir. Someone could be watching you."

_I know, I know. I just..._ He curled up a little more, shuddering at how his soaked, chilled hair stubbornly clung to his forehead, his soaked clothes sticking to his freezing skin. _I... never knew the cold could hurt, I guess. The wind actually hurts it's so cold._

"Please don't say that to General Armstrong, sir." Falman shivered himself, not at the cold but the very idea of it. "She'll laugh you all the way back to Central."

"While standing out in the cold in her panties, completely unaffected, proclaiming to the world how much of a pansy you are, sir!"

Breda's glare grew even more annoyed. "You're obscene, Jean." He hit him again, bowling him over into the snow without pause, while Roy nearly choked on a quiet chuckle that devolved into another shiver while Falman shrugged.

"You know," his warrant officer said, "she just might actually do that. She really does hate you, sir... besides, no one with half a brain would dare look at her. I certainly wouldn't."

Breda snickered. "Half a brain? That leaves Havoc out, then. When women are concerned, he loses all sanity."

"Hey!"

"You dated a homunculus, Jean."

His captain wilted a bit, chewing on his lip. "That... that wasn't... that was different, okay?!"

Roy chuckled quietly under his breath, his teeth chattering. _Her tattoo was right on her chest, you idiot. Right on top of her-_

"I didn't know about the tattoos then, so _shut up,_ all of you! You'd have all done the same as me! Don't deny it!"

Breda rolled his eyes. "Go back in the snow, idiot." And, so saying, he pushed his friend over once again, sending the blond facefirst into a snow pile.

Roy, smirking quietly, just lay there on his side and continued to shiver.

Fuery was the first to notice, looking over at him sadly and biting his lip. "Cold, General?

Roy just gave him a tired look, not bothering to answer the obvious question, and his lieutenant winced a little, flushing. "Sorry. Of course you are. And you can't even risk lighting a fire, or even warming the air up... come on, guys. Let's help him."

Too drained and exhausted to move, Roy found himself just watching as first, Fuery crawled over to lie behind him, back to back, then the others started to come, joining his lieutenant in trying to share body heat. "Can't have you freezing to death, sir," Breda scolded him, even as he reluctantly sat next to Fuery and started rubbing his uninjured arm vigorously, trying to warm him up even more.

Roy, too fatigued and in pain and numb and fucking _freezing_ to be able to help their efforts, found himself unable to do anything but just lie there and let it happen. Even Havoc, who'd looked for a minute or two like he wanted to say something, call out the fruitlessness of the venture, at last gave in and remained silent, deciding that it wasn't worth pressing the point now, and joined the others. "Never thought _you_ were the raven I'd wind up cuddling with, sir," he groused, and Roy grinned weakly, burying his face in the snow.

It occurred to him, very quietly, a soft whisper in the back of his mind, that the cold had to be getting to him. That being left in the snow for so many hours had given him more than just shivering and chattering teeth to contend with, and he needed to stop himself now while he could still remember that this was wrong. That he needed to stop this, and start thinking of any possible way he could risk using his alchemy to keep himself just warm enough to stay alive- because he could not, could not, _could not_ die here.

Roy quieted the voice, curled up a little tighter into his men's grips, and shut his eyes.

* * *

When the blinding, glaring sunlight straining through the blindfold woke him up, Roy was still freezing, and Azarov was still absent.

He curled up even tighter into himself at a miserable blast of wind, moaning as it scraped against his raw, numb cheeks and arms. He could barely even feel the pain of the broken one anymore; it was nothing under how _cold_ he was. _Oh, god,_ his mouth moved, teeth chattering in the chill. _Oh, god..._

"Man up, Boss," Breda told him, but even as out of it as he was Roy could hear the lack of spirit or bite in his captain's voice. "Come on, the Flame Alchemist can't freeze to death. That's just pathetic." But he sounded sad, not insistent, even as he rubbed his arm vigorously to try and warm him up, like he'd surely been doing all night. Roy could barely even feel it.

_They won't kill me..._ he mouthed weakly, then gasped as another gust of wind came and jerked onto his back, curling desperately to get away from it. _They can't. If I die here, he loses._

Havoc snorted. "And, what, you think you're winning now? Look at yourself, idiot."

Roy held still for a moment, the words almost like a punch to the gut- then shook himself, pressing his face against the snow. As long as he was alive, he was winning. Right? If he died here, then Amestris would go to war for him... but if he snapped and gave into what Azarov wanted, _Drachma_ would go to war... they wouldn't let him freeze. He had to wait it out. He could do that, right? That was just what Azarov wanted, wasn't it? Wanted him to try not to freeze to death- but then...

_Come on,_ he cajoled tiredly, ducking his head against his chest. _He's not even soaking my gloves with his shit vodka anymore. It's safe. And, I don't even have to snap. I can just warm up the air... that's all I have to do..._ it'd be so easy, too- if he could just-

Havoc smacked him over the back of the head. He almost felt it.

"Come on, sir, don't be stupid. Someone could be watching you."

_But..._

God, all he wanted was just a second's worth of warmth... _warmth..._ he didn't even remember how it felt anymore. That was all he wanted. Just a second, that was all. _I promise, it's just for a moment. I promise, that's all... come on, you guys... please..._

"We're not going to let you, sir."

It was Breda, that time. He wasn't sure if the stinging on his cheek was supposed to be another slap, or if it was just the ice that was so cold it was burning him.

And they were right, of course.

It was too dangerous.

He curled up even more, miserably pulling his legs to his chest in the snow, letting out a pathetic little half-cough, half-sob.

He was so cold...

Around him, he could feel his men soften, looking down at his pathetic form with sympathy but still refusing to yield. "We're being harsh for your own good, sir," Havoc told him, and even though he knew it was true, it didn't stop the deep ache in the center of his chest, or how _desperately_ he wanted to get out of the cold.

"You can't, General." Fuery smiled sweetly at him, a sweet, innocent smile that gleamed in the darkness and turned scarlet with spilled blood. "Not after what we gave up for you."

Roy shut his eyes tighter, pressing his face into the snow, and tried very hard not to feel the anguished guilt piercing through his heart, or see his youngest subordinate's grin.

He was just so cold...

* * *

"Maybe he's not coming back. Maybe they're never coming back! Maybe they _died!_ "

"Shut it, Fuery," Havoc groused amicably, picking at his fingernails as the young lieutenant paced back and forth, fretting, his every step crunching deep into the snow.

"But you don't know!" Fuery cried, throwing his hands to the air. "It's been so long! They wouldn't let him freeze to death, right? They don't want him to _die-_ they should've come back by now!"

Falman waved a hand at him, appearing particularly uninterested. "And what exactly are we supposed to do if Azarov _did_ die? I mean, the general can hardly go anywhere, like this. He doesn't seem that inclined to try, either. Although, you could've gotten up and walked away when they first took us out here, you know."

Breda snorted, rolling his eyes. "And what, gotten himself shot? Nice plan there, genius."

"I'm just saying."

Glaring around at them all, Fuery continued to fret and pace, clearly not amused or placated. "We've got to start figuring something out! Come on, it's been _days_ since they took us out here! Hasn't it? Hasn't it?!"

Havoc shrugged. "Who knows. He's not dying here, we already decided that. We're not letting you die like this, right, Mustang?" He winked at him but did not stop, already gesturing for Fuery to sit down. "And that's all that matters. He doesn't snap, he doesn't die; beyond that, who cares what he does? So what if he freezes a little, or goes a little cuckoo." He grinned brilliantly again, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve; the fabric came away a bright, perfect red. "Now be quiet, would you. We've spent all this time trying to talk him into _not_ burning this place up; don't talk him back into it."

...Fuery did have somewhat of a point, actually, now that Roy really thought about it.

He was going to die here.

Azarov clearly didn't care about keeping him alive anymore. It had been too long since he'd been dragged out here into the cold, too long for any other explanation to suffice. Azarov didn't care. Either he snapped and died, or he died. There was no third option. There was no winning anymore. And if he was going to die either way, then why not die warm...? Why not-

No, no, no... _no,_ what was he thinking? No, no... he couldn't die here. He could _not._ If he died in Drachma it meant war. He couldn't he couldn't, he could _not_ die! Not when his men had already-

_don't think about it don't think it don't think it stop stop stop_

-...he just couldn't.

Let them drag him home and shoot him an inch over the border. He didn't care anymore. He'd force himself to keep breathing every step back to Amestris then keel over dead the moment he was home and his life no longer was the price for a war. He just didn't _care._ Freezing, warm, alone, with his men, it didn't _matter._ He'd drag himself back home inch by inch if he had to and then stand up before the firing squad with a smile but he just _could NOT_ die here!

He wouldn't.

When Roy forced his eyes open again, still shivering miserably and violently but new conviction now deep in his heart, his lieutenant was gone.

_...Where's Fuery?_ he asked, lifting his head a little- but there was no sign of him anywhere. It was as if he'd never even been there in the first place. _Where did Fuery go?_

One by one, his men all shook their heads, sitting there in the snow like it had never been more than just the four of them, and Roy shivered again. "He left," Havoc said vaguely, as if that was just the end of it, then leaned back on his hand and took a drag on his cigarette.

_...What do you mean he left?_

"You don't need him here anymore," Breda told him, clarifying nothing, and after a moment, Roy just gave up, lying his head back down on the snow.

He tried not to feel the terror, or the cold.

* * *

"It's been three days."

_No it hasn't._

"Yes, it has, sir."

_No it has NOT._

"You're being overdramatic-"

_It's been weeks, hard ass! There's no fucking way-_

"It's been three days, you moron." Breda rolled his eyes at him while Havoc and Falman snickered quietly, all three soldiers obviously amused at him. "If it had been weeks, you would've starved or frozen to death by now. So no. It's just been three days. You're fine."

Roy groaned. He tried to push himself over to turn onto his side, but his limbs were so chilled and he was so cold even attempting it hurt in ways he'd never imagined, and the effort required to even move was enormous. He relaxed onto his back again, lying his head down in the snow. _I don't call this fine._

"Oh, shut it," Breda chuckled, smirking. "Don't pretend like you've never been cold before."

Havoc raised an eyebrow as he sat back in the snow. "Maybe he hasn't. He is the Flame Alchemist, you know. Whines every time it drops below forty in Central... threatens to set a bonfire in the office to keep warm every winter... using paperwork as timber-"

_I do not whine._

"Begging your pardon, sir, but Hawkeye says that you do."

He sighed again, letting his head roll to the side. Roy licked a little at the snow, trying to satiate his parched throat and dry tongue- so cold he didn't even shiver at the taste. _Hawkeye says. Hawkeye says a lot of things.  
_

"She does, and you'll listen to her, if you know what's good for you."

With another miserable sigh, Roy curled a little more into himself and shut his eyes tighter, wishing he could just relax enough to catch a few hours of sleep. It felt like he was in a nightmarish daze most of the time anyway... he just wanted to close his eyes and _not_ feel the cold.

Even if just for a second...

Flames licked eagerly at the edges of his mind, growing from his gloves and encompassing everything. They flickered dangerously, devouring the prison camp and the snow and crawling ever closer- but he couldn't feel the warmth. Not even when they reached him and began eating delightedly at his finger and toes, incinerating them to charred ash...

He could feel the pain, but not the warmth.

"You're hallucinating, sir," Falman informed him calmly, and Roy sighed miserably, watching the flames flicker upwards even higher. "Being overdramatic as usual."

Roy tilted his head to the side, observing as his fires ate away at his arms. _I'm on fire. Overdramatic?_

"Nothing's on fire... except possibly your sanity."

_And what does it matter if it is?_ He sighed again. The flames licked to burn away the rest of his legs, but through it all, his men just sat there, untouched by the destruction. _Sanity's overrated anyway... not like I'm going to live long enough to enjoy it. She's going to kill me when she finds out what... what I did.  
_

"You want her to kill you. There's a difference, sir."

Roy sighed again.

The same flames he'd tortured Riza with ate away at his soul, leaving him cold and empty as a block of ice even as he burned alive.

_...I don't want to_ die, he decided at last, shivering. _I just... I don't..._ _I don't know what I want. I just..._ He paused again, trying to find the words.

_...I just want this to be over._

He needed for this to be over.

"Doesn't matter what you want, General." Falman calmly scooted an inch closer, ripping his shivering hands apart from a snap. His arm twinged, overly numb in the cold, and he didn't have it in him to resist. "Do you have any idea how pissed off Hawkeye is gonna be at your this?" he pressed. Blood dripped onto his gloved hands from his face. "First you abandon her, shot in the middle of Drachma- and then you don't even have the courtesy to stay alive to be lectured for it?"

He shook his head again, the blood on his face gleaming with a ruby glow in the flames.

"She'll _literally_ follow you into hell now, sir, and assassinate your ghost if you do this."

God, Riza.

Roy sank a little deeper into the snow, writhing miserably in agonized guilt. Another half sob of an apology stuck in his throat. After everything he'd done to her- now this, too... she'd be returned a flag draped coffin at best; more than likely he'd burn himself to ash and she'd be given nothing except a worthless, dead commander and the burden of grief and guilt for the rest of her life. Because she'd blame herself. He _knew_ she would. She'd always blame herself.

Riza...

He'd failed her, too.

"You haven't failed her _yet,_ sir. So don't fuck up and change that now."

Roy raised his gaze miserably, lifting it over the flickering fires to meet his subordinates' once again. _You talk like I have a choice._

"You do."

_...But I-  
_

"You can do this for as long as you have to," Breda interjected calmly, without showing even a hint of being swayed. "Don't whine and act like you _can't_ do this; you _can._ And it doesn't matter what happens after. All that matters is that you make it home alive and that you don't snap now. So, all of this?" He waved at the flames flickering on top of him, pressing down through his chest now and tendrils blazing against his neck and face. "Quit fantasizing. You don't get to do it, so stop thinking you do. You don't get to do anything except lie here and freeze and stay alive. That's all you have to do- that's all you're _allowed_ to do. So quit whining and do it."

The flames vanished into the blackness.

It didn't matter... he'd never felt their warmth anyway.

Only the pain of burning alive.

Falman grinned at him again, teeth flashing in the dark. "That's how it's done, sir." The grin became something of a smirk, some sinister look that made something deep inside Roy's chest ache. "So next time you start complaining about wanting this to be over, you just remember that."

Roy hesitated, the words striking him as firmly as a blow to the face. He swallowed dryly, flinching through the pain of it. _...It's never going to be over, will it?_

Breda shook his head. "Not for us, sir. Never for us. And not for you, either. It's your price to pay."

"For letting this happen to us," Falman finished, and smiled.

_...I know.  
_

"Yes, sir." Then he grinned. His mouth was bleeding. "It's why you're not going to die here, sir. And you know that."

Yes. He did.

When he looked around again, Breda and Falman were gone, and his only subordinate left was watching him.

"That's the spirit, sir," Havoc told him through a bloody smile, and Roy moaned through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut again.

_Let me out... let... me... OUT..._

* * *

It was late the next night, he imagined, when his last remaining subordinate decided he needed another talking to.

"You need to," Havoc needled, nudging at his shoulder. "Come on, sir. You've got to."

_No, thanks._

"Yes, you do." He nudged him next, more annoying than anyone had any right to be- even if Roy was so cold he couldn't feel the push. "You don't have a choice."

_Yes, I do. I could die._

"No, you can't. Fuery already talked you out of that."

_...I could blow this place up-_

"Falman and Breda told you no."

_...Since when do you guys give the orders, anyway?_

Havoc smirked at him. "Since you needed us to, General," he snarked coldly, and Roy sighed, giving up again. Dammed bastard... but he was just too cold and tired to keep arguing.

_Fine._

Very weakly, Roy pushed himself up on one shaking, unbroken arm, curling up in the snow, his teeth chattering miserably, and somehow managed to croak out an exhausted, "Vah-die." Then he went at it again, clearing his throat to raise his voice, struggling to make himself known over the horrible wind. "V-vah-d-d-die."

In his opinion, it'd be far easier to just keel over and die than grovel on his knees like an animal for fucking water. But apparently, his opinion didn't matter much anymore, because his men, or what was left of them, weren't going to let him die.

Not until he was home, anyway.

For the first time since he'd been tossed outside, Roy heard something besides the crunch of snowfall around him and his men's voices.

"Oh, vah-die, Mustang? He speaks again... is that what you want. Vah-die..."

Azarov laughed, muttering something else as he limped away in the snow, and Roy couldn't help himself from flinching back. Havoc sat next to him, moving a little closer at that and rubbing his shoulder in a silent offer of comfort. "Stay strong, sir," Havoc told him quietly, "you've got this," but the words sounded very distant underneath the cold, and he just lay there and shivered, trepidation rising for when the brute would return and force him to drink again. Carefully, Roy flexed his fingers, giving his broken arm an extra little painful tug to try and remind himself that he couldn't give in yet. No matter what Azarov did, he could not, could not, _could not_ snap. Not yet. Surely he was close to the end, surely there wasn't much longer now... he just had to hold out a little bit more... he could do that, surely. Fuery and Falman and Breda didn't need to be here anymore to stop him. That was why they'd left, after all- wasn't it? He didn't need them here to stop him; he could stop himself now. He could. He _had to._ Yes. He had to, he had to, he had to. He didn't have a choice, not after what they'd done for him; he just had to control himself- just a _little longer-_

Limped footsteps came, cutting off his thoughts abruptly. Havoc shifted a little more in front of him as if to protect him while Roy just laid limply on his stomach, too weak and exhausted to even try and defend himself. He closed his eyes, accepting the inevitable indignity and disgrace that was the come.

"Take your god damn water, Mustang," Azarov sneered from above, and his limp came to steady stop.

Then everything was silent- silent, except for the whisper of falling water.

Then...

...

" _AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!_

" _AHHHHHHH! AHHH! AHHH! AHHHHHHHHHH!_

**"** _**AHHHHHHHHHH!"** _

Oh god- oh _god-_

" _Ah- Ahhhhh- O-Ostanavis!_ " he screamed once he could even form words, but almost anything beyond that was escaped him as he threw his head back and writhed in the snow, twisting like a tortured hellbeast. Oh god-! _"Ostanavis, ostanavis, OSTANAVIS!"_

It hurt. Oh god it hurt. It hurt so _bad._ He'd never known something could hurt this much in his life but now- every inch of him, every _scalding_ inch of him _burned_ , from his soaked hair to his chilled fingers and toes- he couldn't stop it- _"OSTANAVIS!" Please, god, please stop, please just stop-_

Avarov had given him water, all right.

By the feel of it, a bucket's worth.

Ice water- now dripping from him from head to toe.

_"AHHHHHHHHHH!"_

Another wretched scream turned moan wrenched its way from his throat and he threw himself back, hacking and wheezing. It was so cold it hurt, ice burns sizzling into his skin as he tossed and turned in the snow. He could already feel trails of it freezing on his face and neck, etching miserable lines down his body no matter how hard he shook and shivered to just get it _off,_ he wanted it off, off off _off_ of him- but he _couldn't...!_

_"Ostanavis, o-osta- ahhhh AHHHHH! AHHHH! OSTANAVIS!"_

"General!" Havoc begged, but his voice was so distant he could barely hear it at all, "Come on, you've got to calm down-"

This time it was partly a scream, partly a sob as he kicked and writhed, gasping for each breath. It hurt so much. Oh, god, it hurt so _much._ He just wanted- just-

_Oh, god, please... just stop..._

_"Mustang!"_ Havoc shouted, lunging to clutch at his gloved hands, forcing the fingers apart before he could snap. "Come on, man, focus! You're fine-"

His fingers, numb and shaking, started to drag together in another trembling snap before he could even feel it.

His gloved hands, trapped underneath him, were perhaps the only part of him that had not been soaked.

_"ROY! Stop!"_

_I can't- I can't- oh god-_

_It hurts-_

"Roy!"

He almost felt the hands on his shoulders, pinning him down flat into the snow. Almost felt them, underneath the horrifying pain lacing through him like fire.

"Damn it- stay strong, sir! You can do this!"

_I CAN'T-_

"Stay strong."

_I can't, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't! I CAN'T!  
_

"You can, sir. You _can."_

Oh, god-

It hurt so bad. Oh god. He couldn't breathe through it, he couldn't move, he couldn't think... he couldn't, he couldn't, he _couldn't,_ anymore. He couldn't-!

"You can, sir. _You can."_

_I can't..._

_Please... please... please... I can't do this..._

He couldn't do this anymore. He had to get out. _Had_ to snap _, now-_ it was the only way-

- _let me out let me out please god let me out-_

"Stay strong, General."

Havoc's hand landed firmly on his shoulder again, and this time, it stayed there.

"Stay strong."

Blood from Havoc's head dripped onto gloves.

And more effectively than any ice water ever had, he doused his alchemy.

The reminder of what price they'd paid for him- and the waste of their sacrifice he'd make if he dared to give in now.

But...

_It hurts... and..._

_I'm... so... cold...!_

"General..."

_I can't do this... I can't do this... I can't do this..._

_...please, Havoc..._

"You can," his soldier promised again, and in the blackness and the cold he could almost taste beautiful fire. "You can, sir. Just a little longer- _"_

_I can't... Havoc, I can't do this... I'm so cold..._

"For us." Havoc's hand stayed on his shoulder, pressing firmly down and keeping him from breaking. "For Hawkeye. You _can."_

Riza...

His men..

Roy shook and shivered, soaked to his core, and collapsed onto his side with a little half sob.

Riza... his men... _Amestris..._

They needed him to do this... they _needed_ him- but-

He just-

He couldn't.

...

He couldn't do this anymore.

_"Zedealy eta,_ you son of a bitch," echoed distantly from above him, and this time, the flames were so real he could almost taste them.

* * *

By the time Roy could think without screaming, it was dawn.

He couldn't feel his hands or feet, or his face.

And Havoc would not look at him.

His soldier just frowned out over the white expanse around them, looking out as the light faded away into nothing. It wasn't snow that he envisioned anymore. Just a long, blank white expanse of nothing.

Slowly, Roy tilted his head towards his last man left.

... _Havoc?_

Still, Havoc did not look at him.

_...Jean?_

Havoc still didn't look at him. But he didn't argue with him, either.

Not this time.

"Yes, General?"

_I..._ He broke off for a moment, weakly swallowing at the raw lump in his throat.

_...I can't do this anymore.  
_

Once again, Havoc didn't look at him.

He just nodded.

"I know, sir."

His heart constricted again, and if he hadn't _not cared_ so much, he might've hated himself.

_...That's why the others left, isn't it._

Havoc paused for a moment, then exhaled deeply, blowing out a cloud of obscuring smoke. "Yeah. At first it was because you didn't need them anymore. Now... well, they're not coming back now, sir. We can't do anything for you." He still looked away out over the snow, fingering his cigarette. "Before, there was some part of you that still wanted to hang on. Now... well, if you don't want to do this anymore, sir, then nothing we say can stop you."

The words made him wince a little, a needling little pinprick of guilt burying itself in the mass already growing inside of him. _That's not it. I know I have to... I don't want to give up- I know what it'll cost and what you all... what you..._

"What you don't think about," Havoc supplied calmly, and took another breath on his cigarette.

He wasn't sure if it was relief or agony, that made him nod his head that time. _...Yeah._

Havoc nodded slightly. "I know, General. You don't have to explain."

_But I don't want this, Havoc- I swear, I don't- I just..._

"You don't have control over it anymore."

Roy swallowed, tasting his own blood, and did not reply.

But he was right.

He wasn't sure how much more he could take of this, but he could see the end now. His limit was broken and passed. If Azarov came back again, he honestly didn't know what would happen. If his fingers would snap and burn this place to the ground. If he'd burn himself up, melt the snow around him in one last desperate attempt to remember what being warm felt like before he died. If he'd just snap over and over, set fire and fire until the whole world burned and him with it. He didn't know- but he couldn't stop himself any longer.

He was on the edge, and all it would take was one slight push to send him tumbling over it.

Riza would hate him for this. If she didn't already.

And his men...

They'd died for nothing after all.

_...I think I'm dying, Havoc._ He turned weakly onto his back, feeling his restrained, gloved hands flop uselessly, his broken hand twitching pathetically, barely even feeling the pain in his arm. _Can you... stay? Until..._

Until the end.

Havoc looked at him again, passive and still. "...No," he said quietly, after a long, deadened silence- and Roy wasn't sure if he imagined the apology in his eyes or not. "I can't."

_...Okay._ He swallowed the rising anguish; was too tired to sob anyway. _I understand._

Havoc gave him another long look, his eyes unreadable. Roy hesitated, watching as his captain prepared to stand and leave him forever. _Havoc?_ he ventured weakly, his own exhausted vision starting to fade with the cold's pull on his consciousness.

"Yeah?"

_...If I die, I'll take Azarov with me._

For them.

And for the first time since he could remember since all of this had started, Havoc gave him a grin that was just that- a grin; not with quiet mocking or sardonic cruelty underneath, no blood leaking down his chin, just a soft smile as he nodded and stood, tilting his head in fond acceptance. "I know you will, sir."

He swallowed anguish one last time, and looked up as his last man left began to turn his back and walk away. _Jean?_

He didn't turn back, nor did he stop. As if he already knew exactly what he was going to say.

But, then, he did know.

Because he wasn't real.

_...I'm sorry, Jean._

He still didn't stop. But he did look over his shoulder one last time, tossing him a final sad grin as he raised a hand up in a farewell salute. "Be seeing you, General."

Then he was gone.

* * *

**March 22nd, 1918  
**

In the end, it did take a week, one week exactly, for the deals to be hammered out. Fuhrer Grumman had been absolutely furious with what Maes had told him of Roy and his mens' conditions and it had taken all seven days to work out a deal that _didn't_ include the man razing the prison camp to the ground. It didn't help that the Drachmans were just a little too eager at the prospect of war- and, in fact, had probably treated Roy so viciously for the purposes of setting one off.

But Grumman was trying to lead Amestris to a new era of peace, and with Maes and Hawkeye there, reminding him over and over Roy would sooner die than see a war started over his sake, they at last managed to work out a deal.

The day of the prison transfer, Maes was there with what felt like all of the soldiers of Briggs, folded stiffly into formation in the biting, winter wind and cold at the northern border. Olivier Armstrong herself led the Drachman prisoners they were giving up as far as she was allowed to go, the woman brazenly displaying her swords to glint blindingly in the snow and sun, clearly none too happy that this had all gone down in her territory and showing the Drachmans just who they would be messing with if they tried anything funny.

Azarov stood on the other side of the border. Maes caught sight of him, standing there seething at the peace treaty's fruition, and had to stop himself from throwing a knife directly into his throat.

He squinted into the blinding sun, straining to see the collection of Amestrian soldiers through their ring of Drachman guards. He actually found Breda first, then the rest of Roy's staff along with him, and at last Roy himself.

He swore.

The general was sandwiched between Falman and Fuery, Falman's one remaining arm hooked firmly around Roy's to grab him by the wrist while Fuery had one wrapped around his waist, the two of them all there were to keep him on his feet. One hand hung limply by his side, the other arm clutched tightly to him like it was injured, and his head lolled on his chest, eyes shut. Maes couldn't even tell if he was conscious.

Breda stood guard from front, shaking on his feet with Havoc slung limply across his back. Together, the four soldiers together creating an impenetrable ring around their commander that just dared any Drachman to try and breach it, and no matter their injuries Maes couldn't help a weak grin.

The group staggered across the snow, their progress likely slowed almost entirely by Roy. Maes didn't doubt his men would've just carried him if they'd been strong enough but as it was, they were forced to shuffle along, supporting their general's entire weight with every step. It was agonizing to watch, and the moment they were over the border, it got even worse; two of Olivier's men tried to infiltrate the ring to carry him, but Breda stopped them with a raised hand and a stubborn glare, with eyes as black and dangerous as a storm that said _he's ours. No one touches him. This is OUR general._

And they proceeded like that, Roy's loyal staff refusing to let even Olivier's men help, the four weakened and injured men near dragging their superior every step of the way through the piling snow.

The moment they were close enough for medics to start converging, Maes broke rank as well, slipping through the blue uniforms and running as fast as he could through the snow. "Ed, stay with Hawkeye," he pressed without looking back, eyes only for Roy and his staff as wormed his way out into a sprint. "Let me through, let me through!" he demanded, squeezing past two soldiers along with a pair of medics then stepping around them when Breda once again halted their progress, his best friend's staff still clinging to him in a tight, protective arc that refused to let even Amestris through to their commander.

"Breda," he said, keeping back a step, waiting for the captain to recognize him. "Breda, it's me."

Of all the people in the world right now, Hawkeye, Ed, and himself were probably the only ones that would've been let through that circle.

But, he was one of those lucky few, and so the moment the dark cloud in his eyes cleared, Breda nearly sagged in relief, pitching forward in the snow and almost dropping Havoc as if keeping the soldiers from Roy had been the only thing keeping him upright. Maes swore, barely catching him in time. "We need more medics over here!" he shouted, grasping the captain tightly to his chest and stumbling back, struggling to keep him at least somewhat on his feet in a near panic. " _Medic!"_

Breda swayed woozily against him even as he planted his hands on his shoulders, trying to lift himself up on shaking legs. "Get the boss," he gasped, "I'm fine- get the boss-"

"He's being seen to," Maes assured, glancing over the rest of Roy's staff who, now that he was closer to them, all seemed to be just as bad as Breda. "Damn it, _medic!"_

But Breda somehow managed to steady himself, shaking his head the entire time. "No, something's wrong with him; y-you- you n-n-need to take him, H-Hughes..."

Despite the captain's wishes, Maes was not about to let go of him to let him pass out facefirst in the snow, no matter how much he wanted to go to Roy. Thankfully, the choice was soon made for him when a medic finally took Breda and Havoc; the moment the pair was supported by another Maes found himself being pushed towards the general and, it not in him to resist any longer, he shot towards Roy.

His friend lurched over the snow, dazed and clearly not entirely conscious. If it hadn't been for Falman and Fuery's support, there was no doubt at it, he'd be facedown in a snowdrift- but Falman was shaking on his feet, grey-faced and clearly struggling, and Fuery- oh, poor Fuery; he'd taken the brunt of his superior's weight despite being near half his size and was paying for it, crushed in under Roy's shoulder and on the verge of a collapse.

Maes hurried forward, wedging himself into Falman's spot and slinging an arm tightly around his waist, pulling him back from Fuery. "I've got you, buddy," he managed with a grunt, hefting the dead weight that was his friend a little more onto his feet as his subordinates both buckled, their legs giving out on them in almost the same instant.

Damn it all. _"Medics!"_ he shouted again, nearly screaming the command. _"MEDICS!"_

Roy reeled backwards suddenly, trying to stumble away from him but not strong enough to escape his arm. A vague sound of distress and fear issued from his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut even tighter and Maes instantly cursed himself for screaming so urgently so close to him. "Hey, it's okay," he promised quietly, tightening his grip even as he pulled forward a little, desperately trying to get him to the medic van or at least somewhere to sit down. "It's just me. Maes."

Roy whimpered again, not opening his eyes and straining weakly to pull away. _"O-osta... navis..."_ he sobbed, the abject agony in his voice freezing Maes in his tracks. _"Ostanavis... ostanavis..."_

Maes stared at him, eyes wide. _Ostanavis?_ Drachman. For 'stop'.

_But... Roy doesn't know any Drachman..._

Swallowing, Maes forcefully shoved such thoughts out of his mind for a more appropriate time and shook Roy very gently, gripping him more securely around the waist. "It's okay, Roy, it's okay. I'm sorry for yelling earlier; I won't do it again. I promise, it's just me. You're safe now, buddy." He paused for a moment, looking over his panicked, deathly pale face in hopes for any signs that he was getting through to him, but to no avail. "Come on, you think you can open your eyes for me?" he tried weakly, heart aching. Maybe if Roy would just look he'd realize he was safe...

His eyes flickered weakly, and for a moment Maes thought he was going to do it- but then a nearby medic started shouting for more help and immediately his friend withdrew, shrinking back and curling into himself. _"Ostanavis, ostanvais, ostanavis,"_ he cried over and over, shivering and gasping.

Damn it, he had to get Roy out of here. "It's okay," he tried to calm him, but his voice was shaking and so torn it surely was more frightening than anything else. "It's okay, Roy, calm down." He pulled his friend closer to him, stiffening when Roy abruptly turned into him, hiding his face in his shoulder and pressing himself against him, trembling so badly Maes could barely keep steady. "R- Roy..."

" _Ostanavis..."_

Maes barely stopped himself from cursing, his mind racing. He wrapped an arm around Roy's shoulders, holding him tightly; Roy's only response was to start shaking even harder, and Maes bit his lip. Clearly, something was very wrong. One week ago, Roy had been dazed and on the edge but hanging in there- now he was on the verge of a mental breakdown in front of the entire northern army. Something had gone _wrong_ and he badly needed to get him out of here as fast as he could.

He held his friend for several seconds, trying to give him a moment to get a hold of himself, then leaned down closer to his ear and murmured, "We're getting out of here, okay? Somewhere safe. Come on, it's okay, I've got you... you think you can walk, Roy?"

The general didn't respond in any way, and Maes winced, trying to ignore the worry and trepidation shooting signals of danger down his spine. "It's okay if you can't; we'll help you. It's all right, Roy; we'll be out of here really soon, I-"

Maes cut off into a black, enraged silence.

Azarov was walking towards them.

He was flanked by Olivier's men, none of whom looked very friendly and looked very keen to just get the trash across the border and out of their hands as fast as possible. In these circumstances, it was impossible he would be any sort of threat- but Maes still found himself gritting his teeth in rage and pulling Roy even closer to him, tightening the arm around his shoulders protectively. If that son of a bitch so much as looked at him...

The colonel proceeded calmly forward in a military march. He kept up the professional manner with every step closer he came, not even looking in his direction, dark eyes focused straight ahead back at his own country.

It was only when he was passing by them, close enough there was not even a foot of space between them, that Maes saw his mouth twitch into a very small smirk.

" _Zedealy eta."_

Drachman for _do it._

Three things happened at once.

Roy _screamed._ A wild, piercing, animal wail of terror and agony, a short and blood curdling screech that sent the rest of the army gathered into a dead silence. He went rigid, head jerking back and body going stiff as a board, and he _screamed._

Azarov threw himself to hit the ground.

And Roy wrenched away from his arms, raised a single, white-gloved hand, and snapped _._


	7. Chapter 7

It took over ten minutes of instruction before the nurses and doctors would allow her in to see him, and only then with many a stern and doubtful look cast in her direction and gossipy mutters behind raised hands. Riza did not acknowledge any of them. Rather, she simply stood there, stone-faced, nodding silently to the many commands; _'one hour only, and then he needs to be back in bed', 'warm water only; hot or cold will make things worse', 'come get us the minute anything happens'..._ it was only years in the military that gave her the patience to stand through their lectures, and when they had finally run out of precautionary warnings, to simply give a crisp nod and turn her back, marching towards the small hospital room that waited.

Upon entering, she received no acknowledgement.

Riza held still for several moments, waiting, hoping to get at least a blink or a look, but when not even that came, she slowly lowered the habitual salute, hand falling limp by her side. It took more effort than it should've to clear the lump trying to form in her throat and force herself forward, bringing herself to stand directly by her superior's side.

"General Mustang."

He still did not even flinch.

Despair, that same helpless, miserable despair that had been close ever since she'd realized his deception rose gleefully to claim her again, swooping her tight into its arms. She fought it back, clenching her jaw. "General Mustang," she said again, louder than before. When he didn't even raise his eyes, she went on, forging straight in to the silence only to drag him back out of it with her. "You need to come with me."

He blinked slowly.

For the first time, there was a hint of something in his eyes. A hint of something, noticeable only because there had quite simply been _nothing_ before.

Her heart constricting, she kept going.

"You need to bathe." She gave him a stern frown of disapproval, mustering up the normalcy with every last bit of strength she had. "And as you seem disinterested in cooperating with the doctors, I have been elected to ensure that you do so."

He just looked at her for a moment, then blinked, as if until now, he hasn't really _seen_ her, but suddenly now he was. He sat up a little straighter, raising his head, his thankfully sharp, piercing gaze wondering over her through bloodshot eyes, even as he huddled himself into a ball that was just a little smaller than before, shifting slowly and painfully underneath the layers of blankets.

He was shaking, and she no longer believed it was from the cold.

He still made no move to comply with her request, though, just drinking her in as if he'd never seen her before or expected to see her again. The raw sort of desperation in his eyes made something deep in her chest ache, and she swallowed, forcing herself to remain steady. Again, it took almost more strength than she had to give to keep her voice strong. But she gave it anyway, because Roy had already given everything that he had. He had nothing left to give.

"Do you want to see him, sir?"

He jerked violently. His dark head whipped upright to stare at her straight on, bloodshot eyes suddenly wide and desperate. He nodded frantically, throat jumping, mouth opening as he tried to speak- but no words came out. He stared at her so abruptly, with such sudden, frantic emotion she was nearly takenaback, but she kept her calm if only because she needed to be calm enough for the both of them, now, and offered him a very small, stern smile. "Then you need to wash off. You know that infection is of greatest concern at the present moment. As you are now, you won't be let within ten feet of him."

Roy stared blankly at her for a moment, eyes still wide as he processed what she'd said. Then he looked down at himself, as if only realizing for the first time just how much of a mess he was. Even smothered underneath layers of warmed blankets, she could still see so much of it... neck and face smudged with layers of dirt and dried blood, bangs dangling in filthy, muddy strands over his eyes, a patch of his hair crusted into a large lump with blood... it just almost hid just how pale he was, not the fair complexion that marked his eastern heritage but the ashen, almost grey cast a man that was not well.

And even that, she supposed, was better than the faint, horrible blue that had stained him like ink when he'd first been taken down here, a staple of just how near he'd come to freezing to death.

Riza cleared her throat, pulling both herself and her general back to the present. When Roy twitched a little, head rising to look at her with wide, lost eyes, she found herself shuddering, nearly stumbling back, ducking her head to shove that stare out of her head. She had not seen those eyes in a long, long time. Not since he'd been just a boy, wondering about her home playing with a man's weapons... but not even then had he looked like that; as a boy he'd been shy, awkward, quiet, but never...

Never like this.

She kept her eyes down, not wanting to see those eyes of a child looking up at her from her general's face. She stared down as she unwrapped the thick, almost stifling cocoon of blankets, revealing more injuries and filth. He shivered slightly once his skin hit the open air, drawing his arms tighter around himself.

Riza steeled herself, bring her gaze up to meet his once again. She raised his arm and carefully slid the IV out, then waved the bloody needle before his eyes. "Don't get too excited, sir. It goes back in when we're done."

She'd hoped for him to grumble or complain at her for it.

Hoped for at least a frown of annoyance.

What she got was a slow, uncaring blink, then just a tired slump of his shoulders as he looked down.

The agony of helplessness tried to choke her again. She swallowed weakly at the hard tightness creeping up her throat, helping him to his feet with a hand that was only barely steady. "Come on, sir," she tried to order, but her voice came out unsteady and weak, not an order at all.

He still followed it anyway.

He could barely walk, moving uncertainly on feet and toes that were still frostbitten. He really wasn't supposed to be on his feet at all; the doctors still weren't sure if he'd lose any fingers or toes, after nearly freezing to death- but Riza worried if she tried to make him use a wheelchair, he just wouldn't go at all. Roy could be stubborn in the best of times, but now...

She sighed as she led him carefully into the hallway, casting such thoughts out of her mind and gripping him gently by the arm, almost as if she was afraid he might wonder off. Maybe she was. Normally, this would be almost laughable in its incongruity.

But none of this was normal.

It had been seven hours since they had arrived at Briggs. In all of that time, Roy had not spoken a single word aside from a pleaded _ostanavis,_ nor, once he'd recovered some form of lucidity and strength after arriving almost frozen to death, had he allowed any doctor to touch him. They'd barely gotten the IV into his arm before he'd flailed and panicked so badly they'd needed to leave him be; it was just their luck he'd finally accepted the piles of warmed blankets the nurses kept trying to bury him under. But beyond that, he'd not gotten any treatment, not even for his broken arm Hughes had told her about before. The doctors had been wary of sedating him, worried that he was still too hypothermic to risk it, and edged rather definitely away from restraining him, not wanting to set off a mental breakdown. They'd hoped, at first, that time would be all he'd needed to calm down and allow treatment.

But when so many hours had passed, and the only change was that his head was no longer buried in his knees and he wasn't shaking quite so badly anymore, they'd had to concede to a different strategy.

A different strategy being her.

Swallowing uneasily, Riza tightened her grip just a little on his arm and took him into the wash area the nurses had already set up for them. He stumbled the whole way there, legs shaking, but even as he veered on the edge of a collapse she found herself still having to force him to sit on the edge of the tub, then plant her hands firmly on his shoulders to keep him there. He just blinked up at her again, looking so acutely lost and apologetic and sorrowful and haunted that the weight of his gaze alone nearly rooted her to the spot.

Even through everything, she could still see a lingering remainder of ashamed self-awareness. That he didn't want to ask her to do this for him- and that he was sorry she had to.

With a breath, Riza crouched down in front of him, taking one his cold hands in hers and bring it up to rest on her shoulder. Guided his fingers to trace the edge of the tattoo only they knew was there.

Reminding him that he had done this for her too, once, when she'd been in too much pain to do it herself. That there was no shame in this, not between them, and that he had already seen her at far worse than she would ever, ever see him.

His fingers twitched uneasily against the tattoo, eyes never leaving her own. He looked somehow numb and entirely overwhelmed, all at once, and seeing that frantic, desperate fear in him kept her going, somehow. She had to be strong. Not just for herself this time, but for him, too.

He sat there limp as a rag doll as she carefully began to work the bloody, torn prison shirt over his shoulders with as little movement to his broken arm as possible. He picked ineffectually at the shirt at first, then cringed and whimpered quietly in his throat as, despite her attempts, the injury was jostled. She waited until his vision was obscured by the shirt to allow her face to fall, just for an instant, regret expanding inside of her, and then the moment he emerged from underneath it, blinking past even further mussed hair, her calm mask was back.

Riza pointed towards his arm, meeting his eyes steadily. "You will let the doctor cast that, sir."

Once again, he didn't say anything.

He just looked at her.

And more to get away from the stare than anything else, she moved on, reaching to help him try and stand next. The pants could stay, she figured; they were so torn it hardly mattered, but it'd save his modesty- even Roy had a shred or two- and even as he was she doubted he'd stand for such an indignity.

Roy's hand grabbed her wrist before she could help him up, his grip surprisingly tight, and she almost jumped. "Sir?" she queried hesitantly, raising her eyes to his- but he wasn't looking at her face.

Slowly, Roy pulled his hand away from hers, reaching forward with the only one he could still move towards her shirt. His shaking, frostbitten fingers struggled with undoing her uniform jacket, fumbling with each brass button, but he went after the task with a single minded intensity- but only once he'd finally succeeded, and started to push up her dark undershirt did she realize what he was after.

"Sir," she cautioned, but the protest was weak. "You don't..."

But it was as if he couldn't even hear her. Because rather than stop, or even slow down, he continued to work her shirt out of his way, and didn't stop until he'd finally gotten what he wanted, and could see her newest scar.

It was low on her abdomen, a twisted and ugly thing. Riza wasn't a vain woman, but she wasn't blind, either. The bright, still healing disfigurement sprawled over her as if he'd been an artist to paint it on her chest, and she swallowed, looking away from the mark.

She'd had worse, after all.

And this, at least, she could bear with pride, because it meant she'd done her job, and stopped that bullet from hitting him instead.

Roy moved his hand over the damaged skin so lightly it didn't even hurt, his face utterly unreadable. After a moment, he pulled away, lowering his palm to his own side, touching his own ugly burn scar.

"Stop," she told him, stepping in front of his thought process before it could go any further. "Don't. Don't do that, sir." She pulled his hand away from his side, trapping his cold palm between both of her own. His eyes met hers again, filled with apology and anguish, and she shook her head firmly, refusing to allow it. "Don't you dare apologize for that. The only apology I'd deserve is if you hadn't done that and I'd died."

She didn't expect him to flinch or pull away, though a lesser man would have. She did expect him to protest and argue. That was just how stubborn he was. He'd try to actually _apologize_ for saving her life; blame himself that she'd taken the bullet for him even knowing full well she'd do it a hundred times over, try to berate himself that he'd not found a way to make it not hurt rather than focus on the fact that they were both alive.

When he remained perfectly silent, her already meager hopes fell and died.

_What did they do to you, Roy?_

He continued to stare at the floor, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed, and his eyes shut. He raised a hand to his brow for a moment, breathing out shakily and seeming to try and get a firmer grip on himself. It took him a few seconds, but at last he looked up to her again- this time with purpose.

He pulled her hand towards him, clutching at it to hold her attention and just _looking_ at her again. He opened his mouth several times like he wanted to speak, but didn't make even an attempt at words, and then just gave up, face crumpling in defeat and shame. But he still held on to her hand and still looked at her, eyes pleading for her to understand.

And because she knew him, even better than she knew herself, she understood.

"Okay," she agreed quietly, nodding to him.

His shoulders slumped in relief and he bowed his head again, letting the hand clutching hers drop limply to his lap. She held it in the air for a second, letting her fingers rest against his brow as her heart shuddered, then returned to her earlier task- this time coupled with a new one.

"Captain Breda is the worst off," she explained to him softly. "He's very ill and still hasn't regained consciousness. They're not sure what he has yet... they're still running tests." She paused, running a hand through a blood crusted tangle in his hair, trying gently to brush it out. "Wouldn't have been so bad, but he never got so much as a day of rest... and the others are saying he pushed himself even beyond what he had to, trying to keep the others safe. He didn't even tell them he was sick until it was too late." She broke off again for a moment, shaking her head quietly at the memory of how furious Havoc had been when he'd told her that- fury that had still, somehow, not eclipsed the protective gleam in his eye, the captain clearly trembling to stop himself from forcing even the doctors examining his friend off of him. "They're cautiously optimistic, now. Are hoping for a full recovery, but... no guarantees, sir."

Roy gave a slow, tremulous nod, expression remaining still at the news. But she saw his eyes darken- obsidian clouding guilt.

Riza let her hand linger on his shoulder for several long, quiet seconds before continuing on.

"Havoc's all right." She spoke gently, trying to reassure him, but he just stared straight ahead, red, wet eyes glazed and miserably empty. "Relatively speaking. He's being treated for malnutrition and exposure, same as the rest of you. He... he just couldn't handle so many weeks of work like that, sir. His legs will probably always be weak..." She trailed off for a moment, unsure if he was even listening. "Sir?"

It took him several moments for him to nod.

Now, he wouldn't even look at her.

Swallowing the brokenness threatening to leave her explanation in shatters, Riza made herself nod back. "He's going to need to be in a wheelchair again. Not permanently, sir. Just six months to a year, they said. ...He's already sworn to be back on his feet again in four."

She tried for a weak smile, then, hoping to provide some tiny modicum of cheering up. That was good, wasn't it? He'd be okay. He wasn't taking this lying down; he was already fighting to get back up again and it had barely even been hours. That was good, wasn't it?

Roy's eyes flickered to meet the floor again, defeated and mired in such guilt it nearly robbed her of all her strength, and just like that, her smile fell.

It took her several seconds to continue on, hesitant, knowing how brutal of a blow this would be to him and hating that she had to be the one to deliver it- that she could not even soften it for him. That she had to stand here and smash it down when he was already crushed and shattering before her eyes. She almost didn't have it in her to be his executioner- but she wasn't one to lie, and so, after giving herself only a few moments to collect herself, she finally cleared her throat and continued.

"...Fuery lost an eye, and Falman lost his arm, sir."

He jerked so hard he nearly fell off the tub.

His eyes lifted again to stare at her, not guiltridden any longer but sick and horrified. He gaped at her for a moment, stricken, and it ached in her so deeply to see such pain there that she almost could not keep her own sorrow from diluting her false calm. He looked like he wanted to scream. For a moment, she thought he would; he shook violently and worked his mouth several times, lips parting over and over again in broken frustration, injustice, anguish- but nothing came out. After several attempts he just stared up at her, chest heaving, horrified eyes shouting out everything that he felt and the agony of being unable to say it. He looked again like he was screaming.

Screaming, but no one could hear him.

Something fragile in her gave way, and her hand raised up of its own accord to pull his head towards her chest. He froze for a moment, trembling in her grasp- but then his own pain won out over everything else and his one good arm reached up to jerk around her almost violently, pulling her even closer against him, and he then buried his head against her jacket in an agonized, silent act of supplication.

No matter his almost useless hands at the moment, his grip was so tight she couldn't have dislodged it if she'd tried.

Her heart threatened to shatter again, and if it hadn't been for Roy, she might've started crying.

"It's not your fault," she forced out, voice a shaking, low whisper. Her fingers drifted helplessly through his hair, stroking along the back of his head. "It's not your fault, Roy."

Her only response was a single, mute shake of his head, followed by a wordless wail.

It was a silent for a while after that, the only sound his gasped, unsteady breaths against her wounded abdomen. His hands, entwined tightly in her jacket, shook badly, but when she started to run her fingers through his hair they shook a little less, so she kept doing it. She just kept stroking his hair, as helplessly silent as he was, and did nothing until at last, after several minutes had passed, he'd finally managed to regain some flimsy sort of composure- but, in the same breath, started shivering.

She sighed, clenching her jaw. He was still freezing, and sitting here half naked like this wasn't helping him at all... no matter how much she regretted it, she knew she had to speak up. "Come on, sir," she murmured, choking it past the lump in her throat and only through a Herculean effort not allowing any of her weakness to be heard. She lowered a hand to his bare, shaking back, feeling the still cool skin as she gently tried to coax him into letting her go. It took a few more seconds, but at last, with a trembling breath, he sat back. His head remained bowed, eyes fixed on the floor and hidden by overgrown bangs- but even like that, she could still see how utterly empty he looked. Like his soul had just left on a vacation, and the person before her was just an empty shell.

Swallowing hard again, Riza made herself keep silent and instead, just helped him climb unsteadily into the warm water and sink down into it.

The noise, the _noise_ he made when he slid into the gentle warmth; it was akin to an animal crying out, a raw sound of longing and pain. He gasped, face contorting in painful amazement. He curled himself up even tighter and smaller until the water lapped at his chin and just stared at it, wide-eyed and speechless.

"...Sir?"

He blinked, raising his eyes to look at her again. He tried to speak only once this time then gave up with a small, pained sound of frustration, biting his lip. Then he pointed at the water what a trembling hand.

" _Vah-die."_

Riza stiffened at the unexpected word, unprepared. He hadn't spoken until now- they'd thought, in fact, that something had to be wrong with his throat or jaw; it was certainly swollen and bruised enough to be broken, and given that he was clearly unable to speak, it only made sense- but now, he spoke clearly and with barely any difficulty at all. She hesitated and frowned at him, unsure. "...Vah-die?"

He nodded and pointed insistently at the water again. _"Vah-die."_

Riza glanced between him in the water in confusion. It sounded Drachman- and he knew she didn't speak Drachman- but then, neither did he. But, it had to be important... this was the only word he'd said. "...Water?" she tried, frowning again. "Is that word Drachman for water?"

Roy nodded vigorously, looking faintly relieved he'd managed to get his point across. _"Vah-die,"_ he insisted, stabbing a finger down at it again.

"...Is something wrong with the water?' she dipped a finger in it but found it only to be lukewarm, and Roy gave a frustrated, disappointed shake of his head.

" _Vah-die."_

"...I'm sorry," she gave up at last, giving in miserably. "I don't know what you're trying to say."

Roy stared at her for several seconds, eyes wild- then just gave up. It was almost painful to see how easily he let go, looking away from her in quiet defeat and lowering his gaze again, his frostbitten, abused hands shaking as he clutched them weakly to his chest, posture slumping as he stopped trying. He tilted his shoulders in a shrug, as if to say _it's fine,_ but it wasn't fine.

None of this was.

At last, steeling herself, Riza forced back the feelings of helplessness and inadequacy, instead moving to do the only thing she could do, and help take care of him. She looked him over, somehow feigning impassivity at the massive, discolored bruises and the broken bones. _He's had worse,_ she told herself, _we all have-_ but they still infuriated her.

She should've been there.

"Why did you send me back?" she asked quietly, hesitating over a bruise. A part of her chastised her for her foolishness... now was not the time; he clearly couldn't answer her, for whatever reason, and even if he could that didn't mean now was the time to make him relive this. But after so many weeks of doubt and terror, to have him back here now- she just couldn't help herself. "I'm supposed to follow you anywhere. _Anywhere,_ sir. Whether it's safe or not." She stopped briefly, her fingers hovering over a burn mark on his shoulder as emotion threatened to make her strong voice break. "Whatever it is, we face it together. Not alone! How am I supposed to protect you if you're too busy trying to protect me?! You're not supposed to protect us, sir! That's not how this _works!"_

He just looked at her hollowly, not even trying to talk now. He just shook his head, a firm but silent refusal, and one of his cold hands moved to rest over hers again. He shook his head a second time, and mouthed, _Not this time._

Her hands were shaking when they stiffened over his, holding his palm so tightly it had to hurt his abused, broken skin, but she couldn't help herself. "You can't tell me to follow you into hell and then not _let me!_ Do you have any idea what that was like?! To- to realize... I couldn't do _anything..."_

It made her feel even worse when Roy turned more fully to face her, radiating apology but not regret, pulling her hand even closer to him. He shook his head again and again, looking even more pained than before- but never once did she see that he regretted what he'd done. Instead...

_You would have done the same in my place._

That was what she saw in him.

He just looked at her unwaveringly, dark eyes saying everything his voice couldn't, and she could almost _hear_ the declaration, plain as day- the words ringing in her ears even as she shut her eyes tightly and turned away, unable to take it any longer.

She hated him for being right.

Because she couldn't lie to him, act as if _of course_ she'd have done the same in his place, she was his bodyguard and that was how it was supposed to work- but not the other way around. Their plans were more important than either of them, yes, and he had a much better chance of being able to make Fuhrer and carry them out than she would; therefore it was her _duty_ to shove him out of the way of any and all danger, or at the very least stand there and take it with him...

But it was more than that, and had been for a very long while.

"...You shouldn't have done it," was all she managed, her voice only barely steady. She shut her eyes for a moment, trying to forestall a shudder. "I should've been there with you, even if I couldn't take your place. Roy... you have no _idea..."_ She almost choked on a pained gasp, the memory piercing through her like a blade. "When I saw you lying to him- when you were just-"

Roy cut her off with nothing more than a firm grasp to her hand, his still cold fingers abruptly catching around hers and pulling them away from a filthy bruise on his side. They held hers so tightly it almost hurt as he jerked around again to face her fully, eyes suddenly wide and imploring. He shook his head.

"...When you lied to Azarov about me?" she ventured unsurely after a moment, takenaback by the almost raw desperation in his eyes.

Roy shook his head.

"...You didn't lie?" she asked uncertainly, frowning at him. "But, you said-"

He shook his head again to cut her off. He didn't even try to speak again. Rather, he just clasped a hand over her left one, pulling it closer to him and tracing over her ring finger. His dark, imploring gaze found hers again, saying anything his voice couldn't.

"You said we were married..."

He nodded, this time confirming what he'd said and that it had been a lie. Then he moved forward, gently trapping her hand against her stomach and holding his there as well, tracing a thumb over her palm.

"That I was pregnant..."

He nodded a second time. Then her hand and his were pulled away from her stomach and then even closer to him, pulled until he could rest her hand over his heart. He looked to her again, and even with his words robbed, she could still hear his voice.

"That... you loved me."

Now, he just looked at her.

His dark eyes said everything- and when she heard it, something in her broke.

"R- Roy..."

Then the general had folded his arms around her and pulled her close against him, pressing his face against her neck with a low, agonized sort of moan. _I'm sorry,_ she felt her lips move against his skin, _I'm so, so sorry-_ but she knew he wasn't apologizing for leaving her behind.

That he'd do it again in a heartbeat.

_I'm sorry,_ his lips moved again, and when he started shaking, so did she.

His cold hands clutched at her shoulders like a lifeline, fingernails digging into her as he trembled against her, face still buried in her neck. He continued to mouth apologies, over and over again, but even if he never said a word she could feel how horribly, breathlessly _relieved_ he was.

Relieved that whatever they had done to him, they hadn't done to her, too.

Whatever it was she'd been clinging to to stay strong until now crumpled, and she buried her face in his hair, hating herself for every moment of weakness and hating _him_ for doing this to her- but, as always, without the strength to blame him for it.

"I love you, too," she forced out past the lump in her throat, and Roy gave no response except to clutch her even harder.

She should've stopped this.

But she hadn't- and all she could do was help him now.

He was clearly not very inclined to pull away, so she didn't make him. She just let him rest against her as she brought barely steady hands to his thin, pale back, drawing her fingers as gently as she could over the ropey burns and split skin, cleaning everything and sparing nothing. It had to have hurt, but Roy gave no sign throughout, just holding on to her like an anchor and never making a sound. Riza found herself taking advantage of the fact that he couldn't see her, because she'd not been able to keep up that unfeeling, unaffected mask much longer, anyway.

She passed over each mark that she should've been there to defend against, listening to him breathe shakily against her and feeling his pulse jump whenever her fingers skimmed over a particularly tender spot. She moved as gently as she could and still get the task done, silent now, at least grateful that he was unresisting even if each unsteady breath, warm on her scarred neck, felt like a slap in the face at her failure to keep him safe.

As the minutes passed, he slumped heavier and heavier against her, cheek resting against her shoulder until he was barely managing to even hold himself upright at all. Her hands, previously attending to a deep wound just above his hip, slowed, tracing helplessly over his side as his breaths finally began to even out and slow. He was plainly exhausted... surely, the rest could wait until later, couldn't it? It wasn't as if he was severely injured... the best thing for him now would really just be a warm bed and some sleep...

"Roy?" she called quietly, jostling him just a little. "...Sir?"

He mumbled something incoherent and wordless against her, his fingers tightening a little more in her hair.

Riza wasn't sure if it was a smile or a sob that she swallowed, but whatever it was, the quiet request that he come back to his room now with her was swallowed with it, and she found herself starting to wash his hair, too, no longer having the heart to disturb him.

Her hopes fell a little lower again when he didn't say anything, though she thought she did catch a faint flush of embarrassment and tightening of his jaw that she had to help him even with this. She'd not really expected it, but had been quietly optimistic for some sort of joke or sarcastic comment; Roy Mustang had his vain streak, and above all else he _adored_ his precious hair, and he'd proudly admit it, too; _do you know how many dates its gotten me?_ he'd boasted on more than one occasion, _of course I take care the best of care of it. It deserves nothing less._

But, now, rather than him treating her to a murmured _I've never entrusted you with anything so important, Major_ or a smirk and a _well, sure you can wash it- but only if you can resist its charms..._ he just sat there silently, half asleep against her, and didn't say a word.

Her fingers shook as they worked their way through a bloody tangle, and she bit her lip hard to keep the small cry of misery contained in her throat where it belonged.

As the minutes passed, his self-conscious embarrassment faded, his eyes growing heavier as she watched. His mouth even twitched into a faint smile, tired gaze focused blearily past her. His lips moved soundlessly as she washed his hair, focus still not on her, and she paused, unsure of what to think. He was probably just very tired, she decided at last, unable to help a fond smile, and left him alone.

Her shoulder had been almost immediately soaked, but he apparently didn't even notice, and she wasn't about to try to get him to sit up, so she just had to tolerate the cold, wet wool clinging to her skin, pressed there by his cheek. It made her heart ache, that was he was so unresisting, so passive, and she found herself just as silent as him, unable to say a single word.

At last, Riza thought he really had fallen asleep. He was certainly still enough, his breaths even at last and the arm still looped around her now slack- though he was still smiling a little, mouthing things quietly, half-lidded gaze drifted past her. She paused for several moments, fingers still in his hair. She didn't want to draw him out of his peaceful daze; this was the most content she'd seen him- but sooner or later, a doctor or nurse was going to come along and complain about how long she was taking. Maybe if she got him up now, and moved quickly enough, he'd be able to relax again once she got him back to his room...

"Sir," she started softly, putting a hand on his shoulder in preparation to shake him awake.

He laughed.

It was very quiet, a faint, warm chuckle, but he continued to stare straight past her, his mouth quirking into an even broader grin. "Havoc," he muttered, rolling his eyes, but he didn't say anything else.

It sounded so odd Riza actually turned a little, half-expecting to find the captain had somehow found his way into the room- as impossible as it was, Roy was very clearly addressing him- but there was no one there. "...Sir?" she asked uncertainly, and this time, when he continued to stare straight past her, it worried her.

"Sir." She jostled him again, speaking more firmly; his only response was another very quiet, hoarse sort of chuckle. "Sir." She gripped him by the shoulders and pulled him back a few inches, shaking him again. "Sir!"

His eyes shifted blearily, blinking again but startled by the shout. He looked to her, first unfocused, out of sorts- then his gaze finally actually locked on hers.

Dazed contentment twisted into pale, absolute horror.

He stared at her like she'd slapped him, jerking away shakily from her hands and covering his mouth with his hand. He shook his head and twisted away, suddenly trembling violently, eyes wide and horrified with himself before he hid his face in his knees, pressing his hands over his ears and gasping. Stunned, Riza sat motionless for a moment before she managed to try and pull one of his arms back, but his grip was impossibly tight and he jerked away before she could pull hard enough.

"Sir-!"

He shook his head vigorously, squeezing his eyes shut like he couldn't stand to even look at her. His breaths came hard and fast like he'd just sprinted miles, thin chest heaving, and he groaned through clenched teeth, sinking in on himself.

"Let m-me _out..."_

Her heart jolted in her chest, and her hand, still outstretched towards him, froze in midair.

"...Sir?" she called again, eyes wide, but he didn't respond in the slightest. "...Roy?"

When he didn't respond again, Riza forewent words and moved forward, gripping his good arm firmly and dislodging it. Even that wasn't enough to shake him out of it and she let her hands down on his shoulders, coaxing him into turning around and facing her again. He tried to jerk away from her again, wide-eyed and panicked, but this time she didn't let him go, and when her resistance was met with a hitched sort of a sob she couldn't take it anymore and pulled him into a firm embrace.

He fought her, at first. He tried to. He pushed weakly with the one arm he could move, but his hand was weak and numb against her jacket and she couldn't let him go- and his attempts to free himself go him nowhere, he just sagged against her, the fight going out of him in the space of a second.

To see him give up so easily hurt her perhaps more than anything thus far.

"R... Roy," she started, desperate and guiltridden. "Roy, you-"

_I'm sorry,_ his mouth moved again.

She dropped off into a heartbroken silence.

_I'm so sorry._ His hand, previously trying to push her away, suddenly tightened and pulled her closer. He sank into himself and pressed his face into the side of her neck again, breaths hitched and unsteady all over again. _I'm... so sorry..._

Instantly, any weak hopes she'd managed to regain fled as if they'd been shot at.

"Roy." Her voice was shaking as she pulled back an inch, holding him steady with both her hands firm on his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. His eyes were mournful and almost overpowered her with grief, desperate with all the things she couldn't say, and she swallowed, barely able to keep herself strong at the sight. "What are you apologizing for? You didn't do anything wrong."

But he just shook his head silently, squeezing his eyes shut as if in great pain and releasing a weak, unsteady, gasped sort of breath. He turned away from her, refusing to look at her, but the desperate grief rolling off of him in waves was almost palpable. _I'm sorry_ , he mouthed again, then bowed his head, slumping over on himself. He turned his back, not even looking at her now. He just shook in the water, forehead pressed against his knee, the tension and misery emanating from him so strong it nearly took her breath away.

_God, Roy... what did they do to you?_

But she couldn't ask him, and he couldn't tell her.

He just sat there, trembling, silent as a stone, and so forsaken she could not stand it.

Her arm went around his shoulders, and she tugged him back against her before she'd even given it a second's thought. She knew it had to hurt; his pale back was just the same as the rest of him, battered and sore, but if he even felt the pain he gave no sign as she pulled him even closer to her, tightening her grip around his cold, wet shoulders and holding him to her as strongly as she could.

"Say something," she whispered, pressing her forehead against his hair.

"...Riza," he mumbled, low and anguished- and for a moment, her heart leapt. He sounded like he was going to go on, he looked like it- but the next time his mouth moved, nothing came out. He tried several more times, but not even a whisper issued from him, and at last he bowed his head and just gave up. His shoulders shook, his expression contorted with distress, he gritted his teeth together- but he didn't make even a sound.

Her heart fell, and something deep in her broke.

_Please. Please just say something._

He didn't.

Misery and guilt filled her like poison, and Riza could not stop herself from pulling him back against her even more tightly, wrapping her arms around him from behind and pressing him to her as tightly as she dared. He still said nothing, but this time, he didn't fight her.

Her heart throbbed again.

Roy held perfectly still and silent now, utterly motionless under her arm. She could feel his heart beat; still uneven and nervous, but no longer the panicked stampede from before, and the longer she held him there, the slower it got. He was calming down again, somehow; managing to reclaim some shabby sense of composure from its scattered remains. Even seeing that, she still held onto him, lacking the strength or the will to let him go.

His wet hair slowly dripped onto her sleeve, but she could barely feel the chill, her arm already pressed against his bare, cold chest. She didn't speak or pull away; as helpless as Riza felt, this seemed to be the only thing she could do for him- and after the weeks apart, unable to do anything but fear that he'd been killed... she hated to admit it, but she needed this, too. It wasn't fair for her to ask _anything_ of him now; her own needs had absolutely no place here- but so long as it helped Roy, too...

A hand wrapping around her own interrupted her thoughts.

She looked down sadly, swallowing the lump in her throat when she saw his head was still down, hollowed eyes shadowed and hidden by his hair. But his frostbitten, darkly bruised hand had gripped firmly around hers, and when it found no resistance, he pulled, gently bringing it over his shoulder to press it against his skin- right over his heart.

Once again, she heard the words, plain as day, and misery burned deep in her chest.

"You're sorry?" she whispered anyway, confirming what she'd already known.

He nodded twice.

"...Roy." Somehow, her voice was steady, even when everything else felt like it was breaking. She tightened her hold on his hand, wrapping her fingers warmly around his stiff and numb ones, trying desperately to get through to him. "You did more than anyone had any right to expect. You gave more than anyone should ever be asked to give. You prevented war, and _everyone_ is going to be okay." She held still for a moment, squeezing his hand even tighter, trying to drive the words home once and for all. "There is _nothing_ for you to be sorry for."

Roy, as always, kept his silence.

And Riza still felt the miserable guilt radiate off of him so strongly he might as well have screamed it.

"You're still sorry, aren't you."

He nodded again.

Riza held still for a moment, trying to find the words. But there weren't any, and at last, she just gave in silently, and pulled him back close to her again, burying her head in his wet hair. She miserably kissed the back of his head- and when his breath hitched, and his shoulders started shaking, she told herself it was just a cough, and hid her face in his hair again when his wet eyes threatened to make her see otherwise.

* * *

If Riza had had it her way, that would've been that. She didn't want to have to deal with anyone else that day, and god knew Roy wasn't able to, either. But there'd soon be others clamoring for their attention- and Roy, most importantly, couldn't just stay sitting there in the water like that all day. He'd get himself sick, and that was the absolute last thing he needed now.

So, when minutes had ticked away in absolute silence, Roy as still as dead and, finally, calm again- or, perhaps just exhausted- Riza at last silently helped him out of the water, keeping a firm hand on his good arm to steady him. He swayed dizzily on his feet and stared at the floor, a faint embarrassed flush coloring his bruised cheeks as she helped him wrestle on a clean shirt. "Here," she said, handing him a pair of hospital pants next as she inclined her head towards the door, aiming to give him some privacy. "I'm going to go find your doctor. I'll be right back."

He nodded slowly, obviously exhausted and not much caring about being made to see a doctor. Relieved he wasn't going to resist, Riza gave him another small smile and started to turn away- then was yanked to a stop, Roy's hand suddenly tight around her wrist.

"R- sir?" she asked, forcing herself to be professional again; best to get in the habit now, if they were about to bring another person into the room. She turned back to find him staring at her, shadowed eyes suddenly bright again as if he'd remembered something. "What is it?"

Roy held still for a moment, evidently struggling with how to get across what he wanted. Then he looked at her again, and slowly, deliberately, mouthed one word.

She froze.

He looked at her plaintively, imploringly. His hand gripped hers so tightly it almost ached, his grasp and his gaze telling her everything, and she found herself faltering, suddenly unable to answer him.

At last, she sighed unhappily, remaining firm and hating herself for it at the same time. He'd be furious- but he just wasn't up to this right now. "Tomorrow, sir. Right now, you need to get back to bed."

His gaze hardened.

She frowned at him, pulling a little on his hand to try and get him to listen to reason. "Sir, you're obviously dead on your feet. You're freezing. You- you're _shaking_ again, for god's sake. You need to lie down- and your arm! You still need to get it seen to- sir, just wait until tomorrow-"

He squeezed her hand hard, and his eyes narrowed.

In it, just barely contained underneath the surface, she met desperation.

Her resistance crumbled.

"...Five minutes, sir," she said, allbeit with the certainty that she would very much regret those five minutes the moment they were done. But she couldn't say no to him. Not on this. "Five minutes only. Then I'm taking you back to your room."

His shoulders slumped and he bowed his head, not put out or disappointed but so severely relieved it was almost painful to witness. A shaking, cold palm met her shoulder and tugged her again forward, pressing her against him until their foreheads met.

_Thank you,_ he mouthed. _Thank you._

He heart constricted, and it took all her strength not to burst into tears.

* * *

He didn't know what she said to the nurses to convince them. He didn't know what the nurses said to him, either, and he paid no mind as a medical team roughly examined him, insuring there was absolutely no danger of him bringing infection or contagions into the room.

He just stared at the door the entire time, sense of trepidation building and heart pounding so hard he felt it pulse even in his head. In those moments, nothing else existed except that door.

That door, and what lay behind it.

Riza's firm hand finally came to his elbow, giving his shaking body support as she guided him forward. His feet went numb and his legs turned to jelly; if it hadn't been for her he would've fallen. Each breath came through a crushing weight on his chest, his insides twisting. He couldn't do this... he _couldn't do this..._

But all too suddenly, there was nowhere left to go, and Riza was opening the door and guiding him inside and- and _there-_

Before he could stop himself, he squeezed his eyes shut.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't see this.

Riza said nothing, but he felt her tense a little by his side, and a new wave of shame crashed over him. His cheeks felt hot and he suddenly couldn't stand to even feel her eyes on him. Was this what had become of him now? So weak and broken he would stand here with his eyes shut like a child, pretending that as long as he couldn't see it, it wasn't real?

No.

He'd done this.

No matter how terrified he was to see it, he had no right to turn his back now.

With one last, shaking breath, Roy wrenched his eyes open.

Maes looked small and pale on the bed. Whiter than the sheets that ensconced him and more still than one still alive had any right to be. The thick layers of bandages were such that he couldn't even see the motion that surely came with each breath, smothering him more effectively than any blanket and covering so much he hadn't even been given a shirt. They hid the wounds completely, not showing him even a hint of the damage his fingers had done.

But he could still smell it.

_Zedealy eta._

Could still hear it.

The snap of his fingers- echoing over a silent snowfield.

_Zedealy eta._

Maes. Screaming.

"Sir?"

_Oh, god..._

"Sir."

Warm, firm fingers closed tightly around his own, grounding him when nothing else could. Roy screwed his eyes shut again for a moment, sucking in a ragged breath, but the sight of his best friend remained burned into his mind, and he raised a hand to his mouth, shaking.

Riza- oh, thank _god_ for her- moved to stand even closer to his side, and if there was concern there, she hid it well. She simply let him squeeze her hand like he wasn't about to lose himself in what he'd done and looked at him, belying nothing but shared sadness. "You still don't remember, do you?" she asked quietly, and he swallowed again, eyes torn back towards Maes with a shake of his head.

He remembered none of it.

_Zedealy eta-_

_Snap-_

_Screaming-_

So much screaming...

But he remembered _none of it._

All he remembered was hearing Azarov, _those words_ , and then just- nothing. It had been like being possessed; his soul just utterly exited his body and in that moment, the only thing that had mattered had been stopping that monster from so much as touching him ever again.

He never remembered deciding to snap.

He never remembered Maes tackling him.

His arm being jerked down, sandwiched down between them to stop his flames from setting off the war they'd all given up so much to stop- and he'd just carelessly thrown away without a second thought.

Maes screaming...

And he hadn't heard any of it- not underneath the screams in his own head.

"Roy." Riza's hand squeezed his again, too warm and alive. "He's going to be okay. And he _knows_ you, Roy. He knows you'd never have done this if you'd had a choice. ...He won't blame you, Roy."

_Zedealy eta-_

_Snap..._

"Roy."

_Zedealy eta._

_(no no no no no letmeout letmeout noooo-)_

_Snap._

Heat.

The sound of flames.

The sound of someone burning alive.

The _smell_ of someone... _Azarov..._ burning...

But it hadn't been Azarov.

He'd smelled Maes _burning._

"Roy-!"

Roy barely made it out of the room before he threw up.


	8. Chapter 8

Jean breathed out a heavy sigh, massaging at the headache growing in his temples, and inhaled deeply on the cigarette. He could taste the tobacco, and for just a moment, tried to lose himself in it, and forget everything else.

"You know, this is the prime situation for you to quit, Captain. How many weeks has it been since you last had a cigarette, now? You should take advantage of that and continue to abstain."

Jean scowled darkly at the floor, and briefly reminded himself that Hawkeye could kill him ten different ways without breaking a sweat, and no matter how annoyed he was, antagonizing her was not a good idea.

"Five seconds," he answered tensely at last, raising it to his lips again, "since I last had a cigarette." He paused for a moment, fiddling with it. "At least the Briggs soldiers were willing to give me a few without harassing me about it. Unlike you lot."

Hawkeye sighed, frowning at him in disapproval, but remained silent, and at her look, Jean mollified, too, frown fading. "I just had to get outside," he explained tiredly, exhaling another cloud of smoke. "Out of that room, anyway."

Because even as sick of the cold and the snow as he was, he'd take that, over the stifling silence that had come to dominate their room in the Briggs infirmary.

Hawkeye didn't say anything again, just looked at him, but her question was obvious, and after a few more moments of shivering in the wind, Jean just caved- too tired to be stubborn any longer.

"Fuery's always walking around in there. Can barely read right now, but does that stop him from trying?" He let out a bitter laugh, taking another drag and relishing every harsh second of it. "Somehow got the stupid idea in his head to blame himself for this shit; he's obsessing over some Drachman book he begged off of someone like a fiend. Like if he'd just spoken it better, he could've managed to help us more in that damn prison..." He shook his head irritably. "He and Falman keep talking back and forth now in that shit language. Falman's just trying to help him, but- damn it, I can't stand it."

That was the straw that had broken the camel's back, he figured... those two had started bickering over one of the finer points of Drachman grammar- in _Drachman-_ and Jean had finally just had it and left.

He shook his head again to himself, trying to pretend that had been the reason for the headache.

Like he hadn't already spent two days trying to wrestle the dammed book away for Fuery to whack him over the head with it for thinking _any_ of this was fault- like he hadn't already given up trying to make Falman lie down already. It was a hopeless venture against the both of them.

Hence the working off of irritated energy via a cigarette.

He sighed quietly under his breath, pushing himself a little more heavily against the wall and ignoring Hawkeye's stern look of disapproval again.

"...And, how is Breda?" she asked at length, when her frown failed to intimidate him into sitting down- and Jean's scowl intensified a little further.

"Who knows?" he muttered sourly. "Damn doctors don't bother to talk to any of us. Last I heard, whooping cough and some other infection. Who the fuck even gets whooping cough nowadays anyway?" He rolled his eyes, tsking through clenched teeth as he folded his arms, shivering slightly in the harsh wind. "Guess working yourself half to death in the middle of winter fuckland kills an immune system. Who knew."

Breda was another reason he'd found himself relieved to just get the hell out of that room.

He was still sleeping a lot, and even when he was awake too drained to talk much. Just seeing him like that was hard, and was he was still torn, somewhere between wanting to punch him for not telling them earlier he'd been this sick and wanting to hit himself for not realizing it...

And then, there was the fact idiot still clearly blamed himself for not managing to protect them.

Shaking his head at himself, Jean forcefully pushed himself onto another line of thought, turning towards Hawkeye with a critical eye. "And what about you?" he pressed, frowning at the shadows under her eyes and the slightly slumped way she still stood, her ordinarily immaculate posture gone as she leaned to take pressure of her healing wound. "You shouldn't be running yourself this hard, taking care of Mustang. You're still-"

"My condition is fine."

"...You don't even look fine, Hawkeye."

"I've had over a month to recover," she snapped, eyes blazing. "My time would hardly be better spent in bed than guarding him!"

He barely stopped an insubordinate eye roll, breathing out another warm cloud of smoke. "He doesn't need guarding right now. We're in the middle of a military base with the Fuhrer himself paying a visit; this place is guarded tighter than anywhere else in Amestris right now. ...Besides, Hawkeye." He gave her a sidelong look, trying to work for an amused smile for a half second before just giving up. Maybe it had been fun before, to tease those two, but now... "What you're doing right now? It's not guarding him."

Hawkeye fell silent for a moment, drawn and pale, shivering in the cold air. "...What would you have me do?" she asked at last, her eyes still averted. "Whether he'll admit it or not, he needs someone with him right now. I... I should've been there, but..." She closed her eyes for a moment as if in pain, exhaling a shuddering breath that misted in the cold air.

"Hawkeye..."

"...But I'm here now," she finished firmly, clearly trying to cast off previous guilt. By the shadows still clinging to her face, it didn't work very well at all. "I may not be much help to him now but it's better than nothing. And he needs whatever I can give him a lot more than I need to rest one second longer, Havoc."

Jean sighed, massaging at his headache again. There was no point arguing with her. Not normally, even, but certainly not when she was like this. Besides, he wasn't entirely sure why he was trying to pick a fight, anyway... she was right. No matter what the general wasn't saying, it was obvious that someone needed to be with him right now- because something was very, very wrong with him.

On the day they'd finally been released from Drachma and made it home once again, Azarov had come to get them without Mustang and refused to answer any of their questions. He'd just led them outside, taking them through the prison without any explanation whatsoever-

Only for them to finally come face to face with Mustang, unconscious in the snow.

He'd been half frozen to death, completely incoherent, and absolutely terrified.

By the looks of it, he'd been there for days.

_And then what happened at the border..._

Jean swallowed back rage, staring miserably down at his feet again.

"I left him with Edward, just now," Hawkeye said abruptly, and he glanced up out of dark memories to see her shaking her head, frowning out in the snow. "He'll keep General Armstrong away, at least. She keeps trying to talk to him, and I just..." She shook her head vehemently, fists clenching. "That woman is not getting anywhere near General Mustang right now. Not if I can help it."

Jean winced a little. The idea of Hawkeye and the eldest Armstrong facing off was downright terrifying, and he only knew he didn't want to be anywhere close when the two finally came head to head. "You left him with Edward?" he asked instead, knowing there was no point in trying to tell Hawkeye that fighting with the major general was not going to end well. "Are you sure that's... wise?"

Hawkeye gave him a strange look. "He's not going to provoke the general now, if that's what you mean. Edward lacks tact, but even he can see that now is just not the time."

"...So... he's not doing any better, then."

Hawkeye hesitated, breaking his gaze with a wince of her own. "I... I don't know, at this point, Havoc," she said at last with a sad sigh, watching her breath mist before her instead of looking at him, her shoulders slumped with quiet misery and guilt. "Sometimes I think he's all right. He's lucid and present- even if he never talks. But, then... I just don't know anymore. He'll have another flashback- at least, that's what he's _claiming_ they are; I've seen plenty of people have flashbacks and this is just- it's worse than that, Havoc. He's still having panic attacks, too, and they're bad... every couple of hours he has another one. I can barely get him to eat, and he still gets sick more often than not. He won't sleep, either. He's so exhausted but it takes him hours to fall asleep and even then, he'll have these horrible nightmares..." She shook her head again, her eyes indescribably pained no matter how hard she tried to hide, then just turned away from him, her shoulders trembling. "I just... something's wrong with him, Havoc. Something's really _wrong_ with him, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do to help."

Jean swallowed uncomfortably, looking away as well. This was a nightmare... he could hardly imagine Mustang in the sort of state she was describing; it was just _wrong,_ nothing like him at all- but after what had happened at the border...

Anything was possible.

Blowing out another cloud of smoke, Jean cleared his throat, looking back over at the major and trying not to appear as hopeless as he felt. "He needs to get his head out of his own ass and come talk to us. Or at least listen to us talk to him. Knock any ideas about blaming himself out of his over inflated head."

Hawkeye smirked quietly, but it was clearly forced. "He needs to go to Central is what he needs to do. The Drachmans broke his jaw. The doctors here at Briggs say it needs to be wired shut for a few weeks to let it heal, but he needs to go to the city to do it- he's refusing to leave until Hughes does, or you four are in better shape. Ordinarily, I'd make him go, regardless, but, now..."

He nodded understandably. He knew if their positions had been switched, he sure as hell wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon, and he didn't have it in him to force Mustang to go, either. Not with Hughes still so bad off...

Jean groaned, rubbing a hand over his face irritably. This was such a mess.

And, the thing was, if the situation had been different, Jean knew he would've hunted down Mustang by now, and shouted at him for not bothering to once show his face, because no matter how hard he was trying to keep the team together right now he _couldn't_ and right now they needed that bastard there to keep them from falling apart.

But...

Well, that would've only been if things had been different.

Something about his thoughts must've shown on his face, because Hawkeye sighed, turning away from him to look out at the snow, eyes downcast but unreadable. "I tried to talk to him," she murmured, shaking her head. "...I think I finally got through to him, but, we'll just have to see. I thought that before, and then he ended up refusing to even go near the hall outside your room." She shook her head again. "I can't get him to even try telling me why..."

Jean cursed under his breath. "He doesn't actually blame himself, does he? You don't think that's why..."

"Of course he blames himself." Hawkeye gave him a flat look and he winced, turning away. "You know how he is... I'd be shocked if he didn't. But that's not it, Havoc- he blames himself for Hughes' condition, too, and he's not avoiding him. The doctors have to kick him out of Hughes' room every couple of hours just to make him rest."

Jean rolled his eyes again, turning his cigarette around between his fingers. "He's not just _avoiding_ us, Hawkeye. He won't even go within twenty feet of us!"

"...I know." She rubbed a hand over her face tiredly, averting her eyes again. "I've never seen him like this before... it sounds ridiculous, Havoc, but- I almost think he's _afraid_ of talking to you. Or... seeing you," she amended with a miserable shrug. "He still hasn't said a word."

Jean sighed, slumping in defeat himself.

Yeah, he'd be pretty pissed at Mustang right now... if he wasn't so dammed sure that whatever it was keeping their superior away was something so terrible he didn't even want to know what it was.

After several silent moments that passed in shared misery, Hawkeye cleared her throat, shivering again in the cold air. "Whatever it is, he won't tell me, or anyone else. But like I said before, I think I've convinced him, now. I think he's going to come see you now."

"Good," Jean sighed in relief. "So we can finally talk to him. ...Good." He paused for a moment, then, with a very reluctant sigh, heaved himself off from heavily leaning against the wall to stagger over to the dammed wheelchair again, painfully ignoring her outstretched hand as if to help. "I'll head back, then. Get him along if you can... we all want to talk to him. Or... talk at him, I guess."

He held still for a moment, longingly fingering the remains of his cigarette one more time as he thought of the uncomfortable confrontation that was to come. Then, with nothing more than a grim sigh, he pushed the thoughts out of his mind and dropped his cigarette to the ground, smothering the burning remains under his bare foot.

Hawkeye gave him a startled look, to which he returned an even more bitter smile than before. "Can't feel it," he told her, smirking, then started to push himself inside.

Just as he reached to haul the door open, however, it was tugged open from the other wide. Opened to reveal Olivier Armstrong.

Jean rolled to a stop, the breath leaving his lungs like a startled curse, and behind him, Hawkeye froze.

"Afternoon, you two," she greeted coldly, and grinned.

A beat of shocked silence later, and then Jean pushed himself back, staggering upwards again to lean against the wall for support next to Hawkeye. "General," he answered unhappily, saluting, and Hawkeye did the same- though even more stiffly and reluctantly than he had. "What can we do for you?"

"If you haven't noticed," Hawkeye added on icily, "General Mustang is unavailable, so if you're here to speak with him I'm afraid-

"Relax, Major," Armstrong interrupted brusquely, folding her arms and radiating annoyance. "I think you've forgotten that every soldier in this place answers to me. Your little stubborn stand wouldn't delay me more than a moment, if I so wanted to force it. Stop acting as if it would. "

Scowling, Havoc tugged Hawkeye back by her uniform, getting the major out of the way before she did something that she would regret. "Then why didn't you?" he snapped, keeping a protective hand on the back of Hawkeye's jacket. "Since when _didn't_ you like forcing things?"

Her cold features were still hard and implacable, but at those words, her eyes flashed dangerously, even more dangerously than the light reflecting off her deadly swords at her waist. "Trust me, I've spent a while considering it. I don't like allowing low-ranking officers to think they have the authority to stand in my way. ...But." She glanced over his shoulder at Hawkeye; even without looking at her, Jean could tell just how furious the major was. "I decided not to ruin an otherwise good soldier's career. She shows good loyalty for her superior... even if her superior does happen to be a repugnant, smug man-child convinced he's God's gift to mankind."

Jean stiffened, gripping Hawkeye's jacket tighter as anger coursed through him, gritting his teeth to stop himself from rising to the defense of his superior- but, to his horror, Hawkeye showed no such reservations. She ripped free of his hand and moved forward, nearly trembling with the force of her rage. _"You,"_ she gasped, with a furious level of poison and hatred. "After everything he did for us in Drachma- after everything he _went through-_ don't you dare-"

"Major Hawkeye is still injured. You'll have to excuse her words, General," Jean forced out, though it was any wonder the speech came out even close to civil at all. He spat them out through clenched teeth and pulled Hawkeye back another steps again. "She doesn't know what she's saying."

Armstrong tilted her head, glancing between the two of them impassively and shifting her weight with a clink of the swords at her waist. "She knows exactly what's saying. She's also proving my point, Captain. She's loyal to him... even over her loyalty to Amestris."

"I'm loyal to him _because_ he's loyal to Amestris, General. ...More loyal than some of us here now."

The silent insult weighed dangerously heavy on the thick, still air, and at the black, cold anger in the general's eyes, for a moment, Jean really thought she had pushed it too far.

But then, Armstrong just shook her head at them both, and, to his disbelief, held up a placating hand in a gesture for peace. "Let us stop this. I didn't come here to argue, you two. Believe it or not, I just wanted to talk."

"You're doing a fine job of showing it," Hawkeye snapped, before Jean could intervene with something _not_ geared towards ticking the volatile beast off even more.

Armstrong gave her a flat look, her eyes slightly dangerous, now, as she watched them like deciding whether or not to treat them as a threat. "All I've _ever_ wanted to do was talk to Mustang to find out exactly what grievances I have to settle with Drachma now, and pass along a message. Seeing as you apparently find him too fragile to handle a simple conversation, however... I'm going to just pass along my message to him through you."

Jean shifted uncertainly for a moment, then just kept his silence, watching the general without saying a word. Behind him, Hawkeye folded her arms stiffly, still radiating dislike and anger. "We're listening," she snapped crisply.

Armstrong just sighed again, shaking her head again as if irritated with them both. "It's not whatever ridiculous scheme you're thinking of, Major. It is simply that we've finally come to an agreement, on how to explain the incident at the border: General Mustang's alchemy gloves malfunctioned, and Colonel Hughes was injured in the resulting explosion. Everything was entirely accidental. No Drachman made any contact with Mustang, and Mustang didn't attempt to attack any of them. ...We won't be taking Azarov's threat to Mustang as an act of provocation, Major."

Jean stiffened, his hostility disintegrating in spite of himself, eyes widening in surprise at the flat explanation. ...What...?

Armstrong, the Fuhrer, and every other high-ranking official they'd been able to scramble up had been deadlocked for days, fighting over what to do over what had happened at the border. Even though Azarov hadn't actually physically threatened Mustang, by their superior's reaction he might as well have. More than one general had been trying to use that as the final nail in Drachma's coffin, and use that as open provocation to invoke their alliance's power for the first time and crush them.

Armstrong, of course, had been leading that charge.

Hawkeye had been trying to keep those talks hidden from Mustang, knowing the general had never cared who the _instigator_ was, he just hadn't wanted war, and never would've stood for it coming with him trotted out as the excuse. But Jean and the others had found out almost immediately, and the longer the arguments had gone on, the more he'd begun to fear they would end in Armstrong's favor. Even with the Fuhrer on their side, Armstrong's authority in the north was undisputed. She'd kept their northern border safer than it had been for centuries before. Whatever she wanted, concerning Drachma, would eventually be hers.

Except, now... it seemed she had had a change of heart.

Hawkeye cleared her throat, stepping forward to shake off his now slack hand off her jacket. "The entire northern army saw General Mustang try to attack Azarov, General. It's impossible to sell that story."

"My soldiers saw what I tell them they did."

They both stiffened, shared an uneasy glance, then looked back at Armstrong disbelievingly.

"...I don't understand," Hawkeye said at last, shocked and unsure. "Why would you help us? You can't stand General Mustang."

Armstrong nodded brusquely. "Yes. I can't. ...But you don't have to like someone to respect them. And... I can respect what he did, in Drachma. I..." She looked away for a moment with an exasperated huff, unfolding her arms to lower a hand to one of her blades. "...I don't know what I would have done, in his position. But I can tell you I would not have handed myself over to the Drachmans and surrendered. Even knowing what the cost was. ...I would've fought to the death, and my men with me, before I _surrendered."_

She said the word like a disgraceful curse, scowling dangerously the moment it left her lips, and Jean frowned again, forcing himself to let the quiet insult to their actions slide, simply because it wasn't worth it. "Then, why-"

"Because he made the right decision for Amestris. You all did." She paused for a moment, looking at the both of them with an unreadable, tense stare. "I'm sure you all know that when Grumman retires, it's either me or Mustang, to his position. There are those who think otherwise, like Hakuro, but that sniveling paperpusher and his ilk- well. There really is no one besides us. No one else has the ambition, the experience, the exposure..." She shook her head, trailing off because they all knew that she was right. Ever since Grumman had become Fuhrer, everyone had known it was going to come down, someday, the choice between Mustang and Armstrong. There was no one else.

"What I'm saying, Hawkeye, is this: I'm withdrawing my claim on it. If Mustang still wants it? He has it."

Jean gaped at her.

After several moments passed by only in utter shock, Armstrong raised a hand again, without words demanding for them to not question her. "I don't want to ever have to be in that situation- where I have to hand myself and my men over to the enemy like that. I don't know if I could bring myself to do it. But he showed that he could. When it was for Amestris... he could. ...So he can have Fuhrer, and all those decisions to weigh himself and his subordinates over the country. I'll stay in Drachma, because I don't want them."

And with that, she turned her back and walked away.

Jean and Hawkeye, both too stunned to say anything, just watched as the general left- then, stopped just in the doorway, only one footstep away from leaving entirely. "Oh, and Major Hawkeye?" she called back over her shoulder, not even bothering to turn around. "You tell Mustang that if he wants Drachma, too, then that one, he'll have to pry it from my cold, dead fingers."

Then she left, just as silently as she had entered, and both of them were left behind, completely speechless.

* * *

"We can set up the amputation site to for automail, if you'd like. But I'd only do that if you didn't want to find a private mechanic... which you should, if you can. I can even recommend someone if-"

"No. I don't have that kind of money saved up. Just... just do whatever you have to. It's fine."

There was a brief, exhausted sort of sigh, followed by a grim nod from the doctor, and a promise to do everything that could be done.

Roy scowled.

This simply wouldn't do at all.

He fingered his pocket watch, still frowning as he pushed off the wall and started to make his way around the corner before the doctor left and found him. After making it to relative safety, Roy mentally started to run through the numbers in his mind, nodding slowly... yes; there was more than enough of his State Alchemist funds to set aside a portion for automail and automail maintenance each year- and while getting his warrant officer to accept it would be another matter, that would be easily resolved. He'd make it an order, if he had to. He made a mental note to speak to Falman's doctor later, and tell him the matter had been taken care of.

Roy glanced at his watch again, considering things. Now that Falman had been seen to... hmm. Perhaps he could go see Breda again; the man still spent most of his time asleep, so it was a fair bet that it'd be safe. Or maybe Havoc? Although, it was difficult to watch the physical therapy undetected... and Fuery was just too damn perceptive for his own good; Roy wouldn't have a chance until night, when his team was asleep and even Hawkeye's watchful eye was blind, turned away by how heavily she still slept, exhausted by her injury and refusal to take it easy.

Roy paused, momentarily coming to a shaky halt to shake his head at himself.

None of this would be a problem if he could simply bring himself to face his team like a man.

But he couldn't.

He could not face them.

It had taken him this long to even feel remotely comfortable spying on them, watching them from the shadows and eavesdropping from behind closed doors. He was finally starting to grow used to the idea of them being alive, able at last to start accepting this truly was real...

But facing them was different.

He couldn't do it.

Roy shut his eyes briefly, rubbing his good hand over his face. It didn't matter. This was fine. He didn't need to face them yet; he just needed to watch, and ensure they were being treated well. That was all. _I'm just going to go check on Breda again,_ he told himself firmly, casting off thoughts of cowardice and embarrassment, _then Maes. I'll check on the others tonight, after Hawkeye's asleep-_

" _There_ you are!"

Roy jolted to a stop.

The mismatched stomping down the hallway was extremely loud, and he held very still against the wall, battling the inward urge to flinch away like a coward as the sound of a one-man stampede drew closer. "What the hell's wrong with you?! I turn my back for one second and you slip away! Do you have any idea how mad Hawkeye would be if she knew I'd lost you?! Hey, Mustang! I'm talking to you!"

Blowing out an irritated, resigned sigh through clenched teeth, very reluctantly, Roy at last turned around to face his former subordinate.

Ed looked extremely annoyed with him, to say the least, as he stomped closer, seething. The kid stabbed a finger at him, frowning dangerously, and for a moment Roy almost expected to be tackled- but Ed just came to a stop right in front of him, throwing a hand up in exasperation and glowering. "What's wrong with you?" Ed asked again, but not shouting any more, at least- and now, underneath the aggravation, Roy could catch a slight hint of genuine concern.

His eyes narrowed.

Behind him, there was the sound of footsteps retreating; Ed leaned around him to see, then blinked, stiffening. "Oh, it's Falman..." he muttered, and Roy forced his scowl to intensify, refusing to allow any hint of his sudden internal panic to gleam through. Not in front of _Ed_ , too, god damn it.

It irritated him even more when the kid softened a little, giving him an eye roll and folding his arms. "Hell, Mustang; if you wanted to see your team why didn't you just say so? It's not like-"

With an aggravated glare, Roy turned his back and just walked away, in the middle of the kid's sentence. He knew Ed would follow, and, more importantly, he just wasn't going to have this conversation. Not here, and not with Ed.

Not that it mattered much, really... even if he was willing to to endure Ed's ribbing when the kid found out he couldn't even face his team, which he most definitely wasn't- he still wouldn't be able to tell him.

He still couldn't speak.

The doctors thought it was his broken jaw. The occasional high-ranking soldiers strolling through to thank him for his 'service' thought it was the miserable cold he'd picked up in Drachma leaving him hoarse _(some fucking service, blowing up his best friend, nearly killing his men)._ Only a very select few knew it was something far more pathetic than that.

His voice just... wasn't there.

It hadn't been there in weeks.

Not since _that_ night.

Roy sighed quietly, rubbing his throat, and staunchly ignored Ed's steps behind him as he weaved his unsteady way through the hallways. Sure, he could blame it on Azarov. The asshole's metal fist finding new purchase in his face with every word of Amestrian he'd dared to speak was quite a convenient target, and so beautifully explained that he could say what few words of Drachman he knew without a problem that it surely had something do with it...

But he knew it was more than that.

"Hey, Mustang, slow down, would you?" Ed's mismatched steps sped up behind him, the kid roughly grabbing at his arm before he'd even realized he was losing his balance. "First you run off, now you might as well be trying to fall flat on your face. You may not care, but Hawkeye will literally _kill_ me if anything happens to you, so just-"

Roy gruffly tugged his arm out of his grasp without waiting for him to finish, rolling his eyes. _I don't need a god damn keeper_ , he thought, seething- but, as always, his voice remained absent.

He headed off down the hallway irritably, deciding his visit to Breda would have to wait until he wouldn't have to attempt to silently explain to Ed- or anyone else- just why he couldn't yet stand before his men directly and face the wounds his failures as their commander had caused. He'd check on Maes, he decided, even as he shuddered at the very idea of seeing his state again. Maes was still asleep. Maes wouldn't be able to look at him the way Ed and Riza did... like something was wrong with him. He could see Maes without remembering... _things._ He hadn't dug Maes' grave, or dragged him to it, or- ...or...

_don't think about it..._

So. Maes was safe.

_...Stop thinking about it, Roy. Just don't. ...don't. Don't..._

_Sweet dreams, General Mustang._

Roy groaned, swaying to an unsteady stop just as he'd been about to round another corner.

"...Hey, Mustang?" he heard Ed venture uneasily, the kid slowing down behind him as well. There was more than a hint of concern in his voice, and Roy squeezed his eyes shut, forcing another unsteady breath.

_Everything's fine. You're fine. Just calm down... come on, damn it, you're fine..._

Very carefully, he opened his eyes again.

Then he froze.

Havoc waved at him cheerfully, his smile flashing a bloody red.

"Hullo, Boss!"

_...Stop it, Havoc._

His bloody grin broadened. "Stop what, sir?" he drawled innocently, and Roy found himself stumbling back a step to get away from him. Havoc followed.

_Get the fuck out of my head. You're not real._

"Oh, yes we are, sir."

Roy spun around irritably, heart pounding, intending to turn his back on Havoc and force him out of his head that way- then froze, when his captain materialized directly behind Ed, instead. He was still grinning.

"Hey, Mustang, are you okay...?"

Roy shook his head slowly, his breaths suddenly coming hard and fast as he stumbled back again, unbroken arm curling around his middle protectively. _Stop this. You're not real. You- you're not real! Why are you still here- why are you doing this?! Why-_

"-are we here, General?" Havoc laughed quietly to his left, and Roy found himself whirling to face the wall, instead- then reeling back when the man appeared there too "Quite plainly: because you want us to be."

_No. No, that's insane- I want you of here! You're not even REAL! Fuck you, Havoc! I don't-_

"Are you sure, sir?" And then he was there on his right, too, leaving him hemmed in on all sides and with nowhere to go. "Maybe the _other_ ones are the ones who aren't real. Maybe you imagined all of this, and you're still in Drachma after all."

_No!_ Roy shot back, battling rising panic. He wasn't going to do this- entertain insanity. No. He was going to be _logical_ about this. _That's not- I just saw Falman! And Breda right before him! You're alive- so just get the fuck out of my head and-_

"But you can't really _know_ that, can you?" Havoc shrugged blithely, grinning again. "How can you be so confident you really didn't crack in Drachma and make up all of this, Mustang?"

_I... no... no, that's not true._ He shook his head as firmly as he could and stood his ground this time, refusing to back away. _Riza's here! Ed's here! Maes is here-_

"Oh, yes! _Maes."_ Havoc grinned nastily, his eyes flashing. "Maes... where is he, then, Roy? Where is your dear _best friend?"_

Roy gulped, tasting vile guilt, and couldn't answer him.

Havoc smirked behind him. "Maybe he's finally waking up. You know how much it hurts, waking up the first time, Roy? You've put enough people in that position; you should know how much it hurts, then... ah, no, he can't be waking up now. Because, then, sir? We'd hear him screaming!"

His stomach twisted.

"Or maybe," the man hedged, and Roy shut his eyes desperately, fighting to tune him out, "he's died! You know how easily things can turn around at this stage, Roy... maybe he _died!"_

_No... no, he didn't. He couldn't have! The doctors said-_

"Ah, wait- no, no, no," he said logically, and Roy turned around hopefully, reaching for an olive branch- then stopped dead, at the blood streaming down from a wound on his head. "He's not dead. Mustang didn't want to _kill_ him, after all- did you, General? You're sick of digging graves." He shrugged, smiling a little. "And sleeping in them."

_...Stop. Stop it. No. No, that didn't... that's not real, that didn't- that didn't-_

"Oh, it _did_ happen, General," Havoc laughed. "No matter how much you just _don't think about it?_ It happened. And you know what? After almost killing us, you know what you did? You turned around, and you killed Maes, too."

_No... no... no... n-_

" _Yes,_ Roy."

_NO!_

Wood splinters showered down around suddenly aching fingers, and in a splash of blood, Havoc vanished.

His chest heaved, and for a second, he was back in Drachma, slowly freezing in a bloody grave of the men he'd failed and let die.

" _Mustang!"_

He jerked back, and just like that, reality slid back into place.

Amestris. Briggs. Safe. Men were alive. Maes was alive. Everyone was alive. Not real. Not _real..._

Not real.

There was an insistent, firm grip tugging on his shirt, and Roy yanked back, still reeling, to stare down at- oh, fuck.

_Ed._

The kid was staring up at him in open shock, his eyes wide and horrified- so horrified it was almost as if _he'd_ watched his team disappear with a spray of blood, too.

His arm ached furiously, at Roy blinked slowly, looking away from the unsettling sight to see his fist buried in the wall.

He'd been aiming for Havoc.

"M-Mustang..."

His heart skipped a beat, and Ed stumbled back, still staring at him in absolute horror.

Roy wrenched himself away in a blind haze, and tore away from him to sprint down the hall- not even hearing as Ed called him back.

* * *

It took him a long while to calm down, after that.

If he still wasn't so shaken, he might've been even embarrassed.

Humiliated. Mortified. Disgusted with himself. Horrified with himself. Furious.

_You're pathetic, Mustang..._

But in the end, he _was_ still too shaken to do anything but sit on the floor of Maes' room, head in his hands, and listen to the raspy sound of his friend breathing.

_You killed him. You killed him._

_No... No, please..._

_You killed him!_

_I'm sorry... I didn't want to, I swear... I never wanted this..._

_I'm sorry..._

He buried his head deeper into his hands, breathing hard, and wished miserably for this just all to be over.

The creaking of the door's hinges made him jump, and he instantly cursed himself again, shaking his head for being so skittish, so pathetic, so easily _frightened._ The mismatched footsteps told him again who it was, though, and after a moment, Roy just kept his head down- but now, on top of the disgust and horror still coating his insides, his cheeks flushed with the hot wash of shame. Fullmetal had seen him like... like _that_. God...

"...I fixed the wall," Ed said bluntly, with zero introduction.

Very cautiously, Roy raised his head up just enough to look at him.

After a few moments, the kid just shifted a little, seeming uncomfortable, and looked away. "Well, I drew the circle," he grunted. "Found someone else to fix it. ...No one else even saw it, so you're in the clear."

He held his silence for a moment then, shifting against the wall, then coughed uncomfortably again. "No need to thank me. Seriously, uh, don't- it'd be weird."

Roy continued to watch him for several seconds, still shaken and nervous and horrified and shocked beyond words, until at last, he just tilted his head down in a weak nod- still to miserable to be truly relieved, but sure he'd find something like gratitude later.

At least he wouldn't have to answer questions later why he'd up and punched a wall, for no other reason than the fact that he'd apparently lost his mind.

"Got that right, General," a ghost of Havoc's voice laughed quietly, and he just groaned again.

After several moments, however, when he didn't have to fight to clear his head and get the bloody, smirking version of his captain out of his mind, and Ed just stood there, uncomfortable and silent, he remembered something else the kid had said. Scowling, he focused on it, though it was just as much to distract himself as it was to repay his debt to Ed that he cleared his throat and spoke.

"Hawkeye," he said clearly, and held Ed's startled gaze.

Ed blinked, obviously thrown. "...You want me to go get her for you?" he asked uncertainly, jabbing his thumb at the door.

With an annoyed huff- _no, thank you, Ed, I think I can handle not being with her for twenty minutes; you can take off the kid gloves now-_ Roy shook his head and pulled himself up to his feet, shrugging his shoulders and trying very hard to put off a facade that made him look, at least, more in control than he felt. "Hawkeye," he said again, then fell silent, frustrated again with his inability to speak. _...Thank you,_ he mouthed at last, pointing meaningfully at Ed.

It took him several seconds to get it, but at last, understanding came to Ed's eyes- swiftly followed by a scoff, as the kid waved him off like he was nothing more than a bothersome fly. "For helping her out in Drachma? Nah. Don't thank me for that, either. No- no, quit looking at me like that; if I'd had to show up in cold fuckland to save _you_ , you'd owe me to hell and back, but... Hawkeye's different." He shook his head for a moment, eyes darkening- and for once, Roy could sympathize with the quiet anger lurking in Ed's eyes.

"Besides, I didn't do that much," Ed muttered darkly, glaring at the floor. "Just got her back home; that was all. ...Should've gone after Azarov after that and taught him a damn lesson. Fuckface."

Roy watched him for a moment, a little unsure, both of where Ed was going with this and how to handle it- but the kid didn't leave him in the dark for long. Throwing his hands up in the air, Ed jerked off the wall and started pacing, shaking his head fiercely and baring his teeth in rage. "What he did to all of you guys- damn it! I can't believe we're letting him get away with it! And what happened at the border; threatening you like that... that god damn _coward!"_

Roy blinked, a little taken aback by the sudden protective gleam in the kid's eyes, then glanced uncomfortably at Maes and shifted, not too comfortable with all the blame for that incident being settled on Azarov's shoulders- but Ed still wasn't done. "And I know we can't kill him, Mustang... and I guess we can't really beat him within an inch of his life, either... but can't we just- I don't know- damn it, can't we just suspend peace talks, just for _five_ fucking minutes, so I can go kick his stupid teeth in?!" He hissed again through clenched teeth, scowling dangerously with a violent kick that came perilously close to wearing another hole open in the wall. "God _damn it!"_

Roy stared at the seething, enraged blond as he stomped around the hospital room, then softened, the familiar sight of Ed pacing around, swearing vengeance, giving him a warm enough sense of nostalgia that it somehow managed to ease the sense of sickened revulsion and sense of shame a little more. "Ed," he said carefully, and walked across the room to drop his good hand on his shoulder. He shook his head down at him, saying without words what the kid already knew.

Ed glared up at him from behind his hair for a moment, but when Roy didn't cave, the kid at last just sighed, slumping in upset defeat with a sigh. "...Yeah," he grunted, kicking darkly at the floor. "Yeah. ...I know we can't." He sighed heavily again, deflating like a balloon being popped. "...Still want to, though."

Black anger still flickered in his eyes, and Roy reflected that, for the sake of the tentative peace between their two countries now, it was very, very good that Ed would have to fight his way through half the Drachman army to get to Azarov- because otherwise, the bastard would already probably be a bloody pulp on the ground.

But that couldn't happen, and so there was just silence instead, Ed seething quietly next to him as he worked his anger under control again. But after several moments, when the tense shoulder under his hand had finally stopped shaking and Ed quietly glanced up at him again, he was now quietly nervous instead of furiously vengeful. Even if his hands were still locked into tight fists by his sides... "And don't go taking this all weird, bastard," the kid told him, glaring a little. "I know you like to take things and make them weird. Well, I'm not mad for _your_ sake. I just... ah..." He trailed off for a second, clearly struggling to find the right words- then just huffed again and looked away, even as his cheeks flushed a very faint, embarrassed pink.

"...No one gets to beat you up besides me."

A brief pause later, during which it felt rather like Ed had started trying to poke at his heart with a very sharp stick, Roy just nodded with a very weak smile, and reached up to ruffle the kid's hair.

* * *

As things finally calmed down in the north, so, too, did Roy settle into an unsettling new normal.

He checked on his team when he could, slipping away from Hawkeye at night but otherwise keeping his distance. He still could not face them, or even bring himself to tell Hawkeye why when she asked. Ed was there, sometimes, but as he got better, the kid stopped so earnestly clinging to him, seeming to get it through his head at last he did not need a miniature hellcat as a protective bodyguard. It would've been touching, had it not been amusing- or embarrassing, to have his own subordinates trying to protect him. As it was, he wasn't really sure what to think.

But aside from that, with every second that he was allowed, Roy stayed in Maes' room.

His friend still had not woken up even once, having been heavily sedated to make things easier, both for himself and for the doctors. Roy knew the procedure for burn victims well, and therefore knew not to expect anything until the end of the week, at least. Even that wouldn't really mean much. As soon as he was stable enough to be moved, he was going to be taken to North City for further treatment, then Central, to be close to his family during the extended recovery.

It had now been four days since the incident at the border, and he was sitting in Maes' room again, reading over the Drachman dictionary he'd worked off one of the base soldiers. Riza stood guard from the window- well, she called it 'standing guard'; really, Roy knew that she just wasn't going to ever leave him alone now, not until he'd somehow managed to put her more at ease. It had been another quiet afternoon, and he'd not expected anything to interrupt that.

Then, the hospital room door had opened, and revealed, not another doctor or nurse, not Ed, not another soldier just passing by-

But Gracia and Elicia Hughes.

Instantly, any meager sense of calm he'd managed to recover shattered.

Gracia smiled at him shakily from the doorway, pale and drawn. "Hello, Roy," she said quietly, but her voice sounded even more miserable than she looked. She pulled Elicia a little closer to her side and looked past him then, searching, undoubtedly, for her husband.

Even if Roy had had a voice, in that moment, he still would've been speechless.

Oh, no.

Suddenly Riza was behind him, one hand firm and supportive on his shoulder as she nodded at the family, a protective shadow at his back. "Mrs. Hughes," she said in greeting, her fingers tightening on his shoulder, but Gracia barely even nodded at her, her eyes wide and frightened, before she found Maes, and, stumbling, she went to her husband's side.

The look on her face made him feel as if he'd just been kicked in the chest.

Gracia just stood there for a long time, looking down at her unconscious husband with wet eyes. Elicia had flinched away almost immediately, hiding her face in her mother's sweater, the sounds of her soft crying filling the room- but Gracia was too stricken by Maes' state to comfort her. She just stood there, staring down at Maes and shaking, and for a moment, Roy saw in her true anguish.

Then, still trembling hard, she swiftly rubbing a shaking hand over her face and dropped down to her knees, looking at her daughter with one of the weakest, most false smiles Roy had ever seen. "Remember what Mommy said, Elicia?" she prodded gently, taking her by the shoulders. "Daddy's only sleeping, right? You don't need to be scared... he's going to be just fine, okay?"

Elicia just let out a little muffled sob, and right then, if it hadn't been for Riza's hand keeping him down, Roy would've ran from the room.

But she was there, supporting him silently from behind and keeping him down in his seat, and Roy found himself powerless to do anything at all except watch as Gracia slowly quieted her daughter and tried not to cry herself. With each passing second, it felt the constricting band of guilt and terror around his heart grew even tighter, and each breath grew even harder to steal.

_You did this..._

_It was YOU..._

But when the woman at last sniffed quietly and looked at him, there was no animosity or anger in her eyes- just warmth. "I'm glad you're here, Roy," she said weakly, somehow finding a trembling smile for him, too. "Maes would be glad, too."

He stared at her blankly.

_._..Maes would be glad?

_She_ was _glad_?

After what he had done?!

It simply wasn't possible.

_No one_ could be that forgiving.

But Gracia, rather than shout at him, just sniffled quietly again, looking wholly miserable, then gestured to the heavy cast on his arm with a trembling hand. "I didn't know you'd been hurt, too... was it in the same mission that my husband was injured on? Or," she wiped at her eyes futilely, "something else?"

...Oh.

_..._

_Oh._

"...Roy?" Gracia asked hesitantly, tilting her head to the side and watching him worriedly. "Are you okay?"

But, once again, even if he had had a voice with which to speak- Roy would've been entirely unable to answer her.

She didn't know.

"Oh," Riza breathed quietly from behind him, realizing it in the same moment as him- and suddenly her fingers were even tighter on his shoulder, protective and comforting in the same breath. "Ma'am... did no one tell you exactly how Colonel Hughes was injured?"

Gracia frowned again, looking between the both of them, and hugged Elicia just a little tighter. "...No."

If possible, Roy's heart started hammering even harder.

Oh, god.

He couldn't do this.

Suddenly Riza's hand was there again, this time gently pulling at his shirt, trying to coax him into standing. "I'll tell you, ma'am," he heard her say, but it felt like underneath a crushing weight of muggy water, his heart pounding too hard and his mind suddenly too panicked to focus. "But Elicia doesn't need to hear the details. Roy? Roy, why don't you take Elicia back to your room with you, while I talk to Mrs. Hughes."

Some minuscule, detached part of him recognized he was being treated like a child, Riza just trying to protect him and get him out of the room while Gracia learned the truth- but the rest of him was too strained and terrified to mind. He somehow nodded numbly, missing everything else that was said, suddenly only just wanting to get as far away from that room as he could. He barely felt when Elicia's little hand found its way into his and stumbled silently to his feet, veering away from Gracia's slightly alarmed stare and lurching towards the door on unsteady feet, only not shaking by a miracle.

_Oh, god, no..._

He had no idea how he got back to his room. He didn't remember the hallway at all, or anything at all beneath the terror and rising panic. He couldn't stop shaking, oh, god... Riza was going to tell her. Gracia would _know._ And then she'd- she'd-

"You monster, you murderer!" Havoc's voice shouted behind him, but even that was distant and faded like it was buried in mud. "That's what she'll say! You monster, you murderer!"

_No, I- I- god... please... stop..._

"She'll be _mad_ at you," and this time it was Fuery, in a horrifically happy, sing song voice. "Remember what happened when you made Azarov mad at you, Roy?"

_Shut up... please, just shut up... she wouldn't, she's just Gracia, she wouldn't... oh god I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..._

"You _monster!"_

_Shut up, SHUT UP! You're not even real... oh god just stop..._

Roy lurched forward, hitting the edge of his bed in a near collapse and dropping Elicia's hand to raise his own to his mouth, shaking violently. Oh, god...

This was what he was now, was he? This pathetic, terrified, trembling mess, sitting here deathly afraid of _Gracia Hughes?_ Gracia Hughes! The woman who'd just looked at him kindly, smiling and crying, and told him she was glad to see him- but oh, god, she hadn't _known,_ but Riza was going to tell her, she'd know soon, and then- oh god...

...no. No! Roy shook his head vigorously, even as he still trembled violently. No, it was fine. She couldn't do anything to him. No- he was being ridiculous! Gracia Hughes? He was afraid of _Gracia Hughes,_ now? Oh, good lord. This was just pathetic! No. No; he was _fine._ Nothing to be scared of. Everything was fine. He'd be fine. He'd be _fine._

...But, if he believed that...

Then why couldn't he stop shaking?

A little hand tugging on his made him jump, and he looked down shakily, still breathing hard, to see Elicia standing next to him, her eyes big and wet and her lower lip trembling again. "Are you sad because Daddy's hurt, Uncle Roy?" she asked him, but her voice was small and weak, and she still looked like she was about to start crying any second now.

Roy froze, his mouth open but no words coming out. Even as much of a mess as he was, the fact that the little girl was obviously worried about _him-_ just... no. No. Her father was barely alive, she was just a kid, having quite possibly the worst day of her life- and here she was, trying to comfort her walking disaster of an uncle.

No.

"Elicia," he forced out, and if his voice still shook with pathetic fear, he forcefully steadied it and ignored it, no matter how sickeningly hard his heart pounded. It wasn't about him. If he just focused on _anyone_ other than his own miserable state, then it'd be all right; he could do this... And then he tried, damn it. He _tried_ so hard to tell her it was going to be okay. That Maes was fine, and even though he looked bad now she'd see soon, just in a couple days when he was better, she'd see- he _tried-_

But nothing came out.

After several agonized, impossible moments of silence, Roy just shut his mouth and did the only thing he could do, and he pulled her up to sit on the side of the bed with him. He was given only a heartbeat of anguished silence before she threw her arms around him, buried her face against his side, and burst into tears.

Even as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, choking back self-disgust at his own pathetic inaction and uselessness and _weakness,_ he still couldn't say anything, or stop shaking.

Hypersensitive and jumpy, Roy heard when footsteps started approaching his room, surely only several minutes after Elicia had started sobbing and still not stopped. The door he'd thoughtlessly left wide open made it all to easy to realize someone was coming, and the sound made him stiffen. The situation was horrifically reminiscent of just sitting there in freezing Drachma, helpless to do anything but listen as Azarov came for him, and he couldn't help but flinch back again, a panicked gasp torn from his throat. Elicia wrapped her arms even harder around him at that, clearly not wanting him to pull away, and he froze again, caught between a rock and a hard place- and still shaking so hard he nearly fell off the bed.

The door was thrown open even wider and Gracia stormed inside, her eyes wild and incensed even if her cheeks were still wet. She turned on him like an enraged beast, and when she saw her daughter, anger twisted into open horror.

"What are you _doing?!"_ she nearly shouted. "Get away from her! Elicia-" She shot forward, grabbing Elicia by the arm and trying to pull her away from him.

Elicia cried out, clinging to him tighter, her little fists balling in his shirt as her mother tried to drag her. "No! Mommy, stop it! I don't want to! _Mommy!"_

"Do as I say!" But no matter how angry she sounded at her daughter, Roy knew every ounce of it was directed at him as she at last got Elicia back and picked her up in the same instant, holding her tightly against her side as she reeled back to get away from him. "Elicia, I don't want you alone with him, do you understand me?!"

Elicia cried even harder, pushing and trying to get out of her arms, straining to reach for him. This time it was almost a scream as she kicked out, desperate to get free. _"Mommy!"_

"You're not to be alone with him!" she shouted, eyes still wild even as they overran with tears. "He's the one who- he's the reason Maes is-"

Suddenly she was on him again, whirled to face him when her voice cracked and she couldn't go on. "How could you?! Maes _trusted_ you! You- _what were you thinking?!"_

_I... I wasn't. I didn't know it was him... I- I'm sorry..._

But he couldn't speak, and from the look on her face, nothing he said would excuse to her why he had tried to murder her husband- and his best friend.

Which was good, because he didn't deserve an excuse.

When nothing answered her, and he just sat there like an ineffectual, silent, pathetic lump, Gracia made a noise between a sob and a scream, and she pulled away even more, hugging her struggling daughter against her. "You stay away from him," she hissed, eyes blazing, and then, both she and her daughter were gone.


	9. Chapter 9

If Riza had thought Roy had been withdrawn and borderline depressed _before_ the Hughes family had made it to the north, then she didn't even know what to call his state afterwards.

He still lurked around his best friend's hospital room with every second he could, but now it was a hallway away, as far away as he could be to ensure he would never cross paths with any of the Hughes family. Ever since the day when Gracia had told him to stay away, Roy had not even stepped into the hall outside his best friend's room.

Not for lack of her trying, of course. While trying to strongarm their way into the room whether Gracia wanted Roy there or not was obviously crossing a line, Gracia wasn't there all day. All Riza had to do was just wait until she went back to her hotel room at night, then take Roy in to see his best friend-

But he refused.

He didn't want to go against Gracia's wishes.

_Sure. Defy Fuhrer Bradley right to his face and lead a coup at the Command Council's feet, no problem- but going against a housewife to see his best friend is too much?_

But of course, Roy had more respect for Gracia Hughes than he'd ever held for the entire old government put together. And after everything that had happened, Riza was relatively sure that if the woman asked for his head on a platter, he'd cut it off himself and hand it to her.

No matter how many times she tried to tell him it wasn't his fault.

Riza sighed through clenched teeth, looking down past a sloppy, loose section of her hair at the general.

He was doing what he always did nowadays, just sitting there in a chair he'd stolen from one room or another, taking notes in that godforsaken Drachman dictionary of his. Riza swore he'd worked more diligently on that thing than his paperwork- not that it mattered much. While he could still only speak in stilted, awkward Drachman, he barely spoke at all now, silent and unresponsive to everything unless she outright demanded an answer- and, despite the progress she'd been making before Gracia had arrived, Roy had now downright refused to even go near his team, either.

With each passing day, Roy seemed to only be doing exponentially worse, and nothing at all that she did was helping.

_So,_ she thought darkly, pursing her lips, _perhaps I should try a different strategy._

"General Mustang."

Roy calmly turned another page in the dictionary, and kept his gaze down.

Clearing her throat and completely undaunted, Riza reached down, wrapping one hand firmly around his uncasted arm. "General Mustang," she said again, and pulled slightly, forcing him up and out of the chair. "You're coming with me. To see your team."

For a very brief moment, he tensed, a wave of stiffness rolling through his shoulders and back, but then it was gone. Just as calmly as before, he removed his arm from her grip and returned his attention down to the book in his lap. Never once had he so much as looked at her.

Her frown deepened.

"I think you misunderstood me, sir," she said, and this time when she gripped his arm, it was too tight for him to dislodge it. "You are coming with me to see your team. Now."

A soft, faint little growl of discontent came from him then, and this time, his dark eyes slowly flickered up to glare at her hand, radiating mute anger. Steeling herself yet again, Riza pulled on his arm, then frowned when he resisted again, firmly enough to keep himself still in his seat.

Riza cleared her throat, leaving her grip on his arm. "Do you have some legitimate reason that you are unable to see them, sir?" she asked him, knowing full well that he did not. While she wasn't sure what exactly his reasons were- they surely had something to do with self-doubt and imagined guilt, but she was convinced there was more to it- those were excuses, not reasons. Those were not something she would accept as a valid reason- no matter how painful she knew self-doubt and imagined guilt could be.

And sure enough, Roy remained still and silent, making no attempt fight her. His eyes glared at her still, his hollowed, exhausted, drained eyes, but other than he showed nothing- and when, after giving him several moments, she pulled him firmly up, he did not resist.

He was unsteady on his feet again, his fingers and toes still healing, but the way he clung to her arm even here, still several hallways away from his men, was clearly for more than just balance. She tried not to worry, but with every step closer his grip tightened, and more than once his breath hitched or quickened- but he still followed her without complainant or hesitation. All the way until the very outside of their room.

Here, he abruptly stumbled to a nervous halt, balking like a startled horse, and Riza couldn't help but let him stop, her heart clenching guiltily. But she still stood firmly behind him, her hand strong his back, and she refused to let him move away now. He needed to do this, no matter how much he might not have wanted to.

There was something about that look in his eyes, though... how abjectly _frightened_ he'd seemed...

She could count the occasions she'd actually seen Roy genuinely _afraid_ of something on one hand.

But at last, the general steeled himself, squaring his shoulders and raising his head. His features were entirely empty now, the fear and apprehension from before drained away and his dark eyes perfectly expressionless. He nodded once, telling her he was ready without looking at her, then stepped forward and opened the door himself without giving her the chance to.

Roy still betrayed absolutely nothing as he stood there in the doorway, just looking over each and every one of his men with an unreadable, piercing stare. Riza watched carefully, seeing his gaze linger over Falman's missing arm, Fuery's scarred, milky white, blind eye, the wheelchair by Havoc's bed- but he never hesitated or allowed any emotion to show. He just stood there and looked impassively on at each and every one of his injured soldiers.

His untouched facade might've worked, if she hadn't felt his hand clenching so tightly around hers he almost broke her fingers.

But, as Riza watched him carefully, she finally saw a very minute, very exhausted sign of relief in him. Like when whatever horrible thing he'd been imaging, upon finally coming face to face with his men, hadn't happened, he was only now finally allowing himself to relax. Even now, though, he still remained unimaginably tense- and now, as he looked back throughout the room, he flinched, with each time his eyes found a new injury on his men. He looked at them as if they were putting him on death row.

But he was still standing there, and that, at least, was an improvement.

"...General," Havoc started at last, his eyes a little wide with disbelief and shock. "It's... good to see you again..."

Roy held still for a moment, then raised a hand, commanding silence without a word. He walked further into the room at last, all eyes on him- but if it made him uncomfortable, he gave no sign. He stood there for a moment, just looking around at them all, then cleared his throat and looked directly to Falman.

" _Prosti."_

Falman stiffened at the calm, quiet word. His eyes widened, and he shared an uncomfortable, pained look with Fuery, the both of them suddenly hesitant- but Roy cleared his throat again, clearly demanding he translate, and the soldier was left with no choice. "He says that he's... sorry."

Roy nodded again, looking back around at each one of his men. "Prosti," he repeated, even more insistently than before, and Riza bit her lip, heart clenching again.

"M... Mustang..."

Roy did not allow for Havoc's quiet stammer to go on, however; instead, he raised a hand for silence again even as he still looked quietly pained, like he wanted to apologize again but wouldn't do any good. Instead, the general walked forward again, his steps still a little tentative and hesitant, his eyes shadowed and haunted, but his intent was clear, and it was even clearer when he came to a halt again, this time at Breda's bedside.

His hands shaking, now, Roy awkwardly lifted his dictionary again, flipping through it with trembling fingers- but his pained gaze kept flickering up to land on his ill subordinate again, like he couldn't stand to look away. _"Sp- spa... spatseeboh,"_ he stammered at last, voice unsure but thick with emotion all the same. _"Spatseeboh, vedushchiy... dlya... menya."_

The order for Falman to translate was clear, but Roy never once looked away from Breda. His dark eyes remained full of pain and regret, not the commanding, arresting stare of her general but the agonized one of a guilty man.

"...He says..." Falman shifted slightly, seeming more uncomfortable than before- but his gaze, like everyone else's, never left Roy and Breda. "Thank you for leading in his absence."

A moment passed in thick silence, and Roy nodded firmly- eyes, still only for Breda.

His hands were still shaking.

"...Sir," Breda mumbled at last, hoarse and faint. He looked away, seeming distinctly uncomfortable with both the attention and the praise. "I... didn't really..."

"He's saying you did a good job, idiot," Havoc told him quietly. And even through a gaze shadowed with old pain, he still managed a weak grin, shaking his head at his friend. "Accept it."

Breda averted his eyes again, opening his mouth then shutting it firmly, as if he just didn't know what to say. It was clear just by the look on his face he was accepting nothing, no matter what Havoc said, but it was just as clear that Roy's words _had_ meant something to him- and that, Riza supposed, was a start.

It was a good start for both of them.

Roy dropped a firm hand down onto Breda's arm for a moment, just looking at him again. This time, no matter how anguished it was, the stare he leveled down on his soldier _was_ General Mustang, and it meant even more than his words had. It was the closest to normal Riza had seen in weeks and her breath caught at the sight, a tiny seed of hope finally starting to grow, and this time it refused to be squashed back down, no matter how short the moment was or how pained Roy still looked, when he turned away.

Riza expected him to come to her again, to try and leave- god knew it had been hard enough to get him here, and of course he wouldn't want to stay- but her hopes rose even further when instead, he paced to stand against the far wall, where he could see them all. His dark, heavy gaze traveled around the room again, resting for a heartbeat on each and every one of them- and lingering on her for a second longer than the rest.

He cleared his throat again, and spoke.

"Prosti."

This time, she was included in the apology.

_Roy..._

Her heart stuttered painfully in her chest, and her throat was suddenly too tight to speak.

Roy looked around at each of them again, silent now, but it didn't matter. His desperate, mournful eyes screamed out the apology again and again, and they all heard it as clear as day- each, just as unprepared for it. Each, just as stricken by it.

"...Mustang," Havoc said at last, voice strained. "...Don't."

Roy stiffened, looking around at them all again. He made a vague sound of protest in his throat, waving the book as if to punctuate the words. _"Prosti!"_ When none of them caved, he started to rapidly rip through the dictionary again, searching frantically for what he needed to say. "Prosti-"

"We'd do it again, Boss." Havoc sat forward again, his gaze sharp and prying; he looked as if he'd stand if he could but instead just stubbornly glared at him, eyes glazing. "It was the right call. We had to do it, for Amestris- and we'd do it again."

Roy made another muffled sound of distress again, shaking his head vigorously. He gestured around at them all, clearly fighting to get his point across, but they once again did not let him. "You don't need both eyes to be a soldier, sir," Fuery spoke up quietly, and Roy flinched again.

"Or both arms," Falman added, and he flinched a third time.

Havoc nodded stiffly, but no matter how stern he tried to look Riza could still see the silent concern in his eyes all the same. "You can't tell us to follow you into hell, Mustang, then be shocked and apologize when we actually do it."

_That's what I've been trying to tell you, sir,_ she thought, smiling weakly at his back.

Roy held still for several moments, clearly struggling to both cast aside their forgiveness and find a way to get his point across without his voice. At last, with another pained, frustrated noise, he just shook his head, keeping quiet and shutting the dictionary against his side in a silent gesture that he had given up trying to speak- but the slumped, miserable set of his shoulders said he still could not accept it, and her heart ached miserably in sorrow.

At last, unable to do anything else, the general simply raised his arm in a silent salute.

A wordless gesture of respect and honor. Thanking them for everything they'd done, and apologizing for everything he hadn't been able to stop. Saying _I can never repay you for what you've done for me- but thank you for doing it._

For several moments, no one spoke or moved.

And then, as one, every single one of his men saluted him back- and for the first time in days, Riza saw him manage a very weak, trembling smile.

She closed her eyes in silent exhaustion, remaining still and now, nearly overwhelmed with relief.

An awkward, uncertain silence fell. Ordinarily, they'd all wait for Roy to speak- but he couldn't now, and without that, no one seemed to know what to say. It was silent for several moments, the men all glancing at each other uncertainly while Roy kept his gaze down on the floor, backtracking an inch, just enough so their shoulders touched.

"...Mustang?" Havoc prodded at last, sitting forward a little more and trying to meet his eyes. He cleared his throat, suddenly seeming somewhat unsettled, but it was clear no one else was going to speak up and Riza, for one, was glad for the break in the silence.. "I... we... can we ask you something, sir?"

Roy hesitated, clearly a little thrown by the question- it wasn't as if it'd be easy for him to answer nearly anything Havoc could ask. But at last, he nodded stiffly, tucking the dictionary against his side with his casted arm. He took a small step backwards towards the door, as if suddenly eager to get back outside again.

Riza silently moved forward to stand just behind his shoulder again. She didn't say anything, just stood there close enough for him to know she was there. And at the slightest relax in the tense set of his shoulders, she knew that was enough.

So at last, Havoc hesitantly cleared his throat, then spoke.

"A couple weeks ago, Boss... one of the nights just before Hughes showed up..."

Roy stiffened a little at his best friend's name, but if Havoc noticed, he gave no sign.

"We... heard you, sir. ...Screaming."

He went on after a moment, still plainly uncomfortable and not very sure how to ask it- but Riza could see, even from behind him, that Roy was no longer listening.

* * *

No.

"...Screaming-"

_No._

_No, Mustang. Come on. Don't. They're fine, look at them, they're fine. It wasn't real._

"-all night long, sir."

_It wasn't real._

His feet dragged him urgently back another stumbled step, and he nearly tripped over Riza.

No... No, no, he could do this. It was just his men. That was all it was. He could stand here and not lose his mind and lie. He _could._ This was just his team; that was all it was. This was nothing. He'd come this far, hadn't he? He could do this, too. He was _fine._

"...Sir?"

Roy could hardly even feel Riza's hand at his back, and this time it was no comfort at all, just another barrier between him and getting the hell out of that room and away from this stares. But that was good, wasn't it? He couldn't get out. He had to face them. Had to do this.

_...sweet dreams, General Mustang..._

_No. No. NO._

"Mustang, you... you were screaming..."

Another shocked breath left his lungs and he clenched a hand around the doorframe, fighting to stay upright and legs suddenly like jelly. No. Just don't think about it. That was all he had to do; just _not_ think about everything Havoc was saying, and then it'd be okay. It'd be fine. _Just focus and breathe. You're fine. Don't think about it. You're-_

"Screaming-"

_Shot four rats. Shot them dead._

"-let me out."

Oh, god, no.

"...Sir?"

_No- no- no-_

_Dig their graves!_

_Pathetic trash, dig their graves!_

"Sir?"

_No- stop it stop it stop it- stop- no-  
_

_DIG THEIR GRAVES!_

"Sir-"

_Have a good night, Mustang._

_Sweet dreams._

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no, _no no no NO!_

"General Mustang-"

_Let me out-_

_Shot them dead-_

_Dig their graves-_

_Sweet dreams-_

_Nonono let me out let me out LET ME-_

He lunged for the door and wrenched it open in a blind haze, and threw himself out into the hallway.

_letmeout letmeout letmeout_

The walls crushed in around him- the world tilted, his head spun- everything was too close and he couldn't breathe, couldn't- his ears rang with-

_LET ME OUT-  
_

-oh, god, he could feel it. Those bodies, all around him. Pressing into him. Cold and stiff and _dead._ There was so much blood-

_Damn it, Mustang, calm down. They're not dead, they're fine. They're not dead! They-_

_Shot four rats. Shot them dead._

_Shot them dead._

_No... no... no...!_

He couldn't do this. He couldn't. His head rang. His ears buzzed. His chest felt tight; impossibly so; so tight he couldn't breathe. He couldn't get out- the hall was suddenly stifling, claustrophobic, hot- which really just made no sense...

Not when he was so cold.

_Stop it stop it stop it_

He wrenched himself around another corner in a blind panic, lurching on damaged feet. It felt like he wasn't breathing at all, each gasp too short and shallow to keep him upright, suddenly all he could process the blood and the smell and the feel of those bodies against his- _no no no no no, stop it stop it stop it-_ but it was just too much. He couldn't, he _couldn't!_ The crowds and the people here; milling around him- all staring at him, all entirely too close- no, no, no, he had to get out. He had to get out!

His lurching, panicked steps took him away before he'd ever decided on it, fixating suddenly on the blessed idea of _outside._ There was nowhere else to go. He couldn't stay here or his room, Riza would find him, and Maes- he couldn't go to Maes. Not after what he had done.

But he had to get the hell out of here _now,_ or else- or he'd- or-

_let me out let me out let me out_

_...just stop. Please._

But there was no rest for the dammed.

When Roy finally made it and tore himself out of the nearest door he could find, throwing himself out into the cold, brisk wind and perfect _aloneness_ of the empty Briggs empty, he was so relieved he almost sobbed.

The door swung shut behind him, a lonely slam echoing in his ears again and making him jump. He jerked away and threw himself to the wall, hitting his knees with a dry heave and gasp. Oh god- oh _god-_

_let me out let me out let me out-_

_Dig their graves._

_Shot them dead._

_DIG THEIR GRAVES!_

_Sweet dreams-_

_No, no, no, NO, NO, NO! STOP IT!_

_Sweet dreams..._

"Ostanavis... ostanavis, ostanavis, _ostanavis! OSTANAVIS!"_

_Sweet dreams, General Mustang..._

This time, Roy didn't know if the scream ringing in his ears came from his mouth or his head.

_Please..._

_Please just stop._

A dry sob finally ripped free, and he sank over on himself, too exhausted to panic any longer. He wrapped an arm around himself and shivered, terrified and numb, and for a moment, had to work to keep his stomach contents down before he threw up.

It took him several long, shuddering breaths, to realize what was happening.

Here he was. Sitting alone, outside in the snow, purely because he couldn't stand to be near anyone else. Run away from Riza and his men like a scared, pathetic coward. A crushing panic attack from being asked a simple question.

He couldn't do this. He could not be this.

"Then why are you, Boss?"

Roy sank deeper into himself, burying his head in his knees and throwing an arm over it.

_Stop it._

_Just stop it._

_Please._

But they didn't.

They never did.

"Come on, Mustang. Why are you? Why are you such a laughable mess?"

_You already know why._

"Say it!"

_I can't._

_"Say it!"_

_...No._

He clutched his head even tighter and shut his eyes. He buried his head even more in his knees and pressed himself even more against the cold, lonely wall. He shut his ears to the screams. He tried to close everything off and ignore it all.

But nothing he did could erase the smell of blood.

"You believed Azarov when he told you we were dead," one whispered; he didn't even know which one. "You believed _him._ Over _us."_

_I'm sorry...  
_

"You dug our graves, and you dragged us, Mustang. Some respect for you men. You _dragged_ us."

_...I'm sorry.  
_

"It's pathetic. You should be embarrassed. Humiliated."

_...I know._

Because it was so ridiculous, wasn't it? No... no! What was wrong with him? It was nothing; he was fine! Wasn't he? It hadn't been real, his men were alive- it was fine, _he_ was _fine!_ It was nothing. He was fine. Yes. Fine. His men were alive. Nothing had happened. He'd dug the graves for four people he didn't even know. He'd done that before; plenty of it, in Ishval. No big deal. He'd buried them. _No big deal._ Just four stiffs; hadn't even known them, his team was fine, okay, alive...

And then...

Roy shifted shakily, burying his head even deeper in his knees. So he'd never spent the night in- one of those- _places-_ in Ishval. That was fine. He just didn't think about that. That was okay. He was fine so long as he just didn't think about that. Besides, it was nothing, wasn't it? Riza would find it pathetic if she knew how badly he was reacting over something that amounted to absolutely _nothing._ She'd laugh at him- if she was the type to laugh at weakness; which she wasn't. No- it'd disgust her instead.

So he just had to be fine.

_Fine._

He... was... _fine._

"...You so sure about that, Boss?" issued quietly, smugly, from his side- and something in him just snapped.

His gloves were ripped from his pockets and he was on his feet again in a panicked breath, yanking on his gloves for the first time since returning home and curling both his hands, even the broken one, in a threatening snap. _GET OUT! Get the fuck out of my head, all of you! Get out or I swear to god-_

"You swear _what,_ General? What do you think you can do to us that you haven't already done?"

_I didn't do a god damn thing to you!_

"Oh?" And then Falman was there, his arm stump weeping blood, and his smile somehow stained with even more of it. "I took this bullet for you, sir, didn't I? Aren't you responsible for this?"

_SHUT UP!_

"What about me, sir?" Fuery beamed up at him with only one eye, the other hewn away in a brutal tear of skin and bone. "You ordered us all to that place. You left us there alone. We died and you did _nothing._ "

_SHUT UP!_ screamed inside his head again and he jerked a hand up, fingers shaking badly but even now, his control over his alchemy absolute. _Shut the fuck up! You want to call me a monster?! Then I'll become one! I'll burn you all! I'll burn you all right this fucking second if you don't get out of my-_

Havoc laughed, beaming too. "No you won't, sir. You don't have the guts."

_I burned Riza, and I burned Maes, so don't you DARE think I won't burn you! Get out! Get out or so help me, I will! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!_

And one by one, they all smiled at him, bled, said, "No."

That was all it took.

His hands went before he'd even realized what was happening. One after another, hot sparks of fire and smoke tossed outwards to bang in the air, exploding violently over the men he'd buried and dragged and killed. The smoke should've obscured them from view but they just stood there instead, untouched by the violent ferocity of it, beaming at him past his flames and laughing in the snow.

But he couldn't stop.

_GET OUT!_

He threw everything he had at them and then even more, screaming into the smoke until he had nothing left to give.

_GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!_

_Let me out-_

_GET OUT!_

_Get out get out GET OUT!_

"You killed us-"

_NO!_

"There's no forgiveness for you, Mustang! Not for a _monster-"_

_NO!_

" _You killed us-"_

_No, no, NO!_

_No I DIDN'T!_

He screamed again, howling desperately into the smoke. He threw all his strength into his flames, snapping with both hands to send out a concussive wave of heat and fire so strong the shockwave lifted him off his feet and slammed him into the wall. Even after his head smashed against the stone so hard it drew blood he kept on, snapping with everything that he had as fast as he could go. _"Ostanavis!"_ he screamed, _"OSTANAVIS!"_ but nothing he did erased those grinning, bloody shadows of the men he loved.

He snapped for minutes on end, his strength flagging and ebbing away with each alchemic explosion but he couldn't even feel the drain of it. Each transmutation sucked further on his energy until his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees, and then from his knees to his stomach- and even then he didn't stop.

He _couldn't._

_Get out-_

_let me out-_

_-of my-_

_let me out-_

_-head!_

_let me out-_

"Never," echoed in his ears, even louder than the explosions, "it is _never_ over for you, you pathetic murdering _monster,"_ and he couldn't hear anything over the screams.

_GET OUT OF MY HEAD!_

"Never."

_"AHHHHHHHHH!"_

And with the very last of his strength, one final blast left his fingertips in a searing jet of fire, and it destroyed it all.

Because flames devoured everything, and just as they'd eaten at Riza's wound and Maes' skin and his soul, they finally erased everything that was left of his team.

Just like that. Nothing left but smoke, curling into the cold air, and the lingering memory of heat on the snow heavy air.

Nothing left but himself.

Nothing, and no one.

They were gone.

_No..._

_They were never here in the first place._

They hadn't ever been here, because it hadn't been real.

His chest still heaving, with either exertion or panic or relief or some other frenetic, horrible thing he couldn't name, Roy shut his eyes, and breathed.

It was not real.

They'd died for him.

He'd dug their graves.

He'd dragged them there, and buried them.

And he'd slept in their graves.

It had all happened.

But... none of it had been real.

His fingers tingled again with the heat, and he wasn't sure if the thing contorting his face now was an anguished smile or another silent scream.

They were alive. They were hurt. He _had_ hurt each and every one of them, and he had to accept responsibility for that. He'd cost Fuery his eye, and Falman his arm. Havoc, his legs- for the second time. He'd nearly broken Breda by shoving onto him the responsibility of leading them, the responsibility that should've been his and his alone to bear. He'd abandoned and devastated Riza. He'd attacked Maes. He'd nearly killed all of them.

And he had to accept that.

But they were also still alive, and as long as that was true, then anything else, he could bear.

_Your fault..._

Yes.

His fault.

Another slow, ragged breath left him, his breath misting and trailing upwards with the smoke. His shaking fingers dragged in another snap, and though the cloth caught and a spark ignited, it ended there. He didn't have the strength for a single transmutation now.

He didn't have the strength for anything anymore.

Roy waited for several moments, lying there, expectant for Havoc to come to chide him, remind him he didn't have the luxury of lying down and giving up, and to pull himself together now and keep himself coming.

When nothing at all came, his ears empty and the white snow around him empty of any sort of blood, the lonely, intense sort of relief that seized him left him too drained to do anything but sink back against the cold ground in gratitude.

They really were gone.

Snow from overhead descended down onto him, soaking into him and leaving him shivering into a choked laugh. He couldn't even sit up or pull himself out of the snow. Now, out of the adrenaline of the fight he could feel the exhaustion and pain sing through him in an opera of misery and deserved punishment, and he laughed in the ecstatic joy of it. Good. _Good._ Give him this. Let him lie here and suffer. Let him feel an _ounce_ of the hell he'd put them all through. Give it to him. He'd take whatever came to him and he'd _relish_ it and beg for more.

_Maes, screaming..._

_Riza, screaming... Riza, crying..._

_My men. Oh, my men..._

"Prosti," he wheezed into the snow, and he smiled again.

Exhaustion sucked him under. Tantalizing sleep under the drain of the pain pulsing in his body and the anguish in his mind. It was the excessive alchemy that was to blame, one too many explosions that had taken all reserves of energy and left him drained and passing out, but he welcomed it with open arms. He just did not have it in him to fight anymore.

For just a moment, just before sleep claimed him, he wondered if death could possibly feel worse than this.

But it was a worthless thing to wonder. His men were right, after all. Even the smallest mercy of death was too much for him, because that would mean forgiveness.

And there was no forgiveness for a monster.

* * *

_"...sir? Sir!"_

_"...oh, god, no..."_

_"He's barely breathing! Get him inside, get him inside!"  
_

_"Sir! Sir, just hang on! SIR!"_

_"ROY!"_

_...Riza..._

* * *

It was cold, for a long while.

Even when it got warm, still, somewhere deep inside, he felt cold.

"...really messed up..."

"...don't say that..."

God, his head.

_So, so cold..._

"Don't say that, okay? Don't..."

_So cold..._

Roy turned his head a little miserably, wincing at the ache, easily tuning out the muffled, quiet voices around him for a moment. God damn. He felt entirely like a worn out dish rag. Every ounce of him was sore... oh.

Yes. His alchemy stunt.

Yes, this was what being so completely drained felt like...

Riza was going to kill him.

After all, he could hardly explain to her just exactly he'd been doing out there, now could he?

He could hardly believe it himself.

It felt a little like he was back in his hospital bed, but now weighed down under thick layers of impossibly warm blankets- like they'd done when he'd first gotten to Briggs. He sighed lazily, fingering the starchy cloth a little. This was an overreaction, now... what, had someone found him outside and thought he was risking hypothermia again? This was ridiculous... he was fine. It had been ten times as cold in Drachma, and that had been for days. He was fine. Give him a day or two to rest up; he'd be perfect. This was probably just the result of Riza worrying, he thought fondly...

"...so sorry."

...Riza?

Wincing again, Roy forced his eyes open, then scowled at the bright lights in the room. He blinked several times, trying to call his vision into focus before letting it wonder in search of her voice.

At last, he found her, standing over by the wall. Her back was to him, head down and shoulders tense and trembling, one hand braced against the wall as if it was the only thing there was to hold her up. Havoc was next to her, shakily propped up against the corner of the room but his back to him as well, one cautious hand on Riza's shaking back.

Roy's eyes widened, the placid calm he'd woken up with leaving him in an instant.

What was wrong? Why was she upset? It couldn't be him; he felt fine... had something gone wrong with Maes? Or one of the others?

Struggling to swallow back the sudden gut-wrenching sense of panic, Roy started to push himself upright. He was about to clear his throat to attempt speech, but before he could, Riza spoke.

"I shouldn't have made him go see you. He w-wasn't ready, and... I made him go anyway. I made him g-go, and..."

Roy stared at her in horror, his insides twisting. She wasn't crying, but her voice shook with anguish and at the end it had almost actually cracked. It sounded like they were talking about him... god, what had he done now? What could he have possibly done to hurt her like this? He was just a little worn out; it was nothing, he was fine- _Riza..._

"Hawkeye, you couldn't have known-"

"I tried to follow him! If I'd gone faster, caught up to him, none of this would've happened! If I'd just-"

"Hawkeye," Havoc cut in. He was gripping her shoulder now, hand tight with concern and eyes dark with pain. "You're still recovering. We all saw him go; he was out of there like a bat out of hell. There was no way you could've caught up with him... besides. _No one_ could've guessed he'd go outside."

Riza just shook her head again, still trembling, and Roy swallowed, guilt knocking into him like a sledgehammer. _Riza, I'm FINE,_ he tried to say, but nothing came out and he mentally cursed his inability yet again, staring at her in increasing bafflement and concern. Why was she so upset? Nothing was wrong with him. The last time he'd seen her this upset had been against Lust... but he very clearly was not dead. What was going _on?_

"I shouldn't have made him see you," Riza said at last, her voice choked with regret- and Roy was horrified when Havoc, after one long, silent moment, just looked at her, and nodded.

"And I shouldn't have asked him what I did. But we both did those things, and now, we have to live with it." He paused for a moment, gripping her shoulder harder. "But this one, Hawkeye? It's not on us- and it's especially not on you. It's on him."

Then, with one last squeeze to her shoulder, he pulled away- then froze, when his eyes landed on him.

The surprise only lasted for a moment. It was swiftly displaced by a guarded stare, locked with his and radiating none of the concern he'd just had for Riza, showing him only a wary, displeased frown. "Hawkeye," he said after a moment, squeezing her shoulder again.

She turned around, too, and just like Havoc had, came to a dead stop when she saw him awake. And just like Havoc, the hard stare she fixed him with was not one of a concerned friend.

She was not happy with him.

Havoc cleared his throat, dropping unsteadily back into his wheelchair with a nod towards Riza again, but any warmth from before was completely gone. "I'm going to go," he said brusquely, making no attempt to disguise the fact that it was to let them be alone. "I'll tell the others he's awake."

Riza said nothing to that. She didn't even look away from him, her hard, piercing stare driving through him like ice, and he found himself inching away with a gulp, suddenly extremely unsettled. What was going on...?

Havoc came to a stop beside him, just before he would've reached the door. His captain's gaze rested on him for a moment, just as unsettling as Riza's. "Nice work, General," he said at last, a cold and sardonic jab that barely hid hurt- and without another word, he left.

Truly anxious now, tension settling in his stomach like a lead weight, Roy pushed himself the rest of the way up to sitting, looking back up at Riza like she might just snap and give him all the answers- but she still was just staring at him with the coldest, most displeased stare she had ever given him in his life. "Welcome back, sir," she told him crisply after a moment of dark silence, folding her arms, and made no move to approach him. "It's been two days since we last spoke, if you were unaware."

Roy gaped at her, stunned.

Two _days?!_

He jerked up even straighter, looking down at himself in a panic and then back up at her, completely lost and in shock. He'd been out of it for two days?! But... why? He had to not be remembering something. Two days?! What, had he been attacked, hit his head? Somehow taken a dive off the fortress? The latter would certainly explain why they were so upset with him, if they'd thought he'd jumped on purpose- but no; his body would be a broken mess if that was the case. But then, what...?

Two days...

_No wonder she sounded so worried earlier..._

"You seen confused, sir," Riza told him, though if the realization he had no clue why she was so angry with him was going to make her take it easy on him, she showed no sign. "I'm unsure why. After all, you are an intelligent man, General Mustang. There is no reason why you should think that sitting in a snowstorm is a healthy pursuit."

Roy shifted uneasily, suddenly glad for his lack of a voice. After all, there was a very small, very stupid part of him wanting to tell her _come on, Major, a few snowflakes is hardly a storm,_ but based off the way she was looking at him now, running his mouth was liable to get him to shot. He stayed silent instead, still inordinately confused. So that was all that had happened? They'd found him sitting in the cold? Why on earth was _that_ enough to make them mad?

Riza glared at him still, stiff and tense from her stance by the wall. "Can you speak yet?" she asked him coldly, and when he slowly managed an unsure shake of his head, she just continued to frown. "Then I'll attempt to contain my questions to yes or no only, sir."

She paced smartly to stand at the foot of his bed, hard stare implacable, arms still folded. She just looked at him for several moments, leaving Roy increasingly unsettled and uncertain with each passing second, and then, she asked, "Were you trying to kill yourself?"

... _WHAT?!_

He stared at her openly, eyes widening at the impossible question. After a stunned second, he shook his head violently, shocked she could even ask that, but before he could press her on it she moved on.

"Were you trying to hurt yourself?"

Even more disturbed than before, Roy shook his head vehemently again, now starting to get angry himself. How could she think _that_ had been his aim?! "Riza-"

"Ah. So, you were not intending to harm yourself. And yet, you still willingly went out and sat down in a snowstorm." Her gaze darkened dangerously, leaving him frozen in place with her barely contained fury. "Did you just have a sudden desire to enjoy the weather, or were you at all considering what it would've done to us, if you'd died out there? What about the _nine hours_ we spent looking for you- did you even realize what you put us through?!"

_Nine hours?_ Roy sat back for a moment, shocked. He'd been out there for nine hours? He didn't remember _that..._ no wonder she was upset with him. That was far from his wisest move... "Riza," he started again, intending to _somehow_ get across to her that it had just been an accident. "Riza-..."

"If you _had_ died out there, sir, you do understand your men would've all blamed themselves for it?! That _I_ blame myself, for forcing you to see them before you were ready?! Or does that not matter to you?!" She suddenly jerked another step forward, hand rising and fist opening as if to slap him- and for a moment he actually thought she would.

Then, as if she'd only just realized what she'd been going to do, she jerked back again, hand lowering. But she still looked more angry with him than she was with herself, sharp eyes blazing with barely contained emotion directed right at him. "Listen to me, General Mustang," she snapped, voice trembling now, more and more frantic emotion showing through, "you can do whatever you please, but you need to remember that there are still people that care about you. For some inexplicable reason, despite all the mind blowingly _stupid_ things that you do, we still care about you, and that means what you do impacts us, as well." She raised her hand again, this time not in a slap but a trembling finger point, and to his horror, her eyes started to grow wet, the very beginnings of angry tears beginning as she advanced on him again. "You want to keep your mouth shut about whatever it is that happened in Drachma, avoid your men, turn you back on me and refuse my help? You want to deal with whatever it is that happened on your own? Then fine. Do it. But then _damn_ well do not turn around and pull a stunt like this after it, sir."

_Riza..._ Roy reached out helplessly, the unexpected but horrifying anguish in her voice piercing him through with a dagger of regret. "R-Riza- prosti... _prosti..." I didn't mean to. Riza, it was an accident. I'm sorry... it was just an accident. Please, I'm fine... I'm okay... please, just don't look like that..._ "Riza, _prosti!"_

Riza stared at him. "You're sorry," she repeated, shaking her head. "You're _sorry."_ Her voice hitched minutely, just the tiniest waver, betrayed only by a soft, gasped intake of breath- followed by a single tear welling over and trailing down her cheek. The sight felt like she'd stabbed him.

"Riza-!"

"Do you... have _any_ idea w-what you... what you put us through?" She bowed her head for a moment, shoulders shaking and eyes squeezed shut. Gasping, Roy tried to reach for her, but she yanked back out of his reach, eyes flying open again as her hand arced in a violent gesture, furious and hurt. "You have no idea what you did, Roy, do you?! _Look at yourself!"_

And, stunned, lost, and nearly frightened, now, Roy did.

At first, he didn't see what she could possibly be referring to. Upon sitting up, the blanket had slipped to pool at his waist, and while he was pale and bruises lingered, that had been true before- that was nothing. He glanced down at his casted arm unsurely, still lost.

His breath left him with all the force of a physical blow.

_...What?_

_..._

"They were still healing from the frostbite you got, in Drachma," he heard her say icily, "which you made exponentially worse when you went out into that storm. Which you would've known was a danger, if you'd listened to your doctor any of the three times he'd told you."

_That's not... possible..._

Then, just like that, what she'd said just _clicked,_ and with another horrified breath Roy sat bolt upright and hurled back the blankets, stare fixating right on his feet.

His heart stopped.

" _Now_ do you see, Roy?!" And she was nearly shouting now, shouting at him and _crying_. "Do you realize what you've done?! You turn your back on me and whatever help I can give you- _for this!"_

His left ring finger, and two of the toes on his right foot, were gone.

From the black and blue, frostbitten bruises swelling around both sites, it was undeniable why they'd been cut off.

_They're...  
_

_They're not there..._

"...R... R... Riza," he mumbled at last, and this time, it wasn't a lack of voice but a lack of words that stopped him from continuing on. His shaking, un-destroyed hand lifted slowly off the mattress, reaching for her.

Riza yanked away from him again, face tear-streaked and tortured in the split second their eyes met, and then she whirled around and ran for the door. She threw herself outside, away from him, and Roy found himself watching, helpless and horrified, as it slammed shut behind her.

A moment later, through the paper thin walls, he heard the muffled sound of her bursting into tears.

His heart dropped.

"...Prosti," he whispered again, voice shaking- but there was no longer anyone there to hear it. "...P... Prosti..."

_Riza..._

Numb and hollow, his only still whole hand lifted tremulously off the bedspread to clamp over his mouth, and he stared emptily down at the empty spot where his finger was supposed to be.

"...Prosti..."

* * *

Riza never came back.

He'd held out a tiny seed of hope, the first time he went to sleep, secreted away to the bliss of unconsciousness only by the increased flow of narcotics through his bloodstream and the lingering lethargy of the hypothermia. Just a tiny hope that she'd cool off, and when he woke up, she'd be there again. Still upset with him, surely. Perhaps barely even speaking to him. Perhaps refusing to look at him. Whatever it was, he'd deserve it.

But he'd opened his eyes to an empty room.

And it had stayed an empty room, ever since then.

And he supposed that he deserved that, too.

For two days, the only people he saw were doctors. He didn't even dare leave the room anymore. There was no point- there was nowhere else for him to be. He couldn't see Maes. He couldn't bring himself to face his team. And Riza didn't want to see him.

Beyond them? There was nothing.

It was painfully ironic. Until now, even with his room deserted, he wouldn't have been alone. His men would've been there with him.

But now, even they were gone.

_No forgiveness..._

He wondered how pathetic it was, that he actually missed, just a little, the raucous, indecent laughter that that bloody Havoc would've given him at the ridiculous sight he cut now.

In some way, it was fitting, he supposed. After how badly he'd scarred so many people on that ill-fated mission it was only right that he be scarred, too.

He tried to tell himself he was fine with it.

Most of the times, it wasn't even close to working.

That was all he could do, anymore, really. Just read the Drachman dictionary, and stare at the empty spot where his finger was supposed to be. He didn't even process anything in the damn book anymore; never heard anything the doctors said- he remembered more of his nightmares than his time awake.

He remembered most, the very rare instances when he managed to hear, just outside his door, the sound of a doctor or nurse trying to convince the indomitable Major Hawkeye to lie down and rest.

She never did.

She never came inside his room- but she never left, either.

That was, perhaps, the only thing left to keep him going.

Because Riza really was all he had left.

The door to his room whined open again, and Roy sunk a little more on himself, looking away from both the noise and his arm. It was around time for the nurse to check him on again. He could tune her out easily. Just stare at the next entry in the dictionary until she was gone. Maybe, if he listened especially hard, he could hear Riza asking, when she left, if everything was still all right. Maybe if he listened, he could hear a smothered hint of concern in her voice, to give him hope that he hadn't completely stamped out and ruined any chance of earning her forgiveness-

Well, he was still sure he was imaging that one.

There was no chance left of that, after all.

"...Roy?"

He went still.

That wasn't his nurse.

At the hesitant sound of footsteps approaching, he kept his gaze down and away, silencing the cold twist of anxiety trying to make him fear. He deserved it, he reminded himself, deserved it all, and held still and stared down, refusing to allow himself to flinch away.

He couldn't stop himself, however, from sinking a little deeper into his bed, just enough to self consciously tug the blankets over his ruined hand.

"Roy?"

After a quiet, almost gutwrenching silence, in which he knew he was expected to reply, Roy at lat made himself nod.

She sighed quietly next to him, her voice low, and thick with bitter sadness. "...I... I know you can't really talk yet, but... well, you can just listen, I guess. I won't take long, Roy. But I have something I need to say."

If it hadn't been for the quiet pain, lurking just underneath those words, he wouldn't have looked up at all. But he heard the hurt, and because he'd already hurt her, more than enough, and refusing to look at her like a coward was beneath him, Roy steeled himself and forced his gaze up to Gracia.

His inward instinct telling him there was danger, and to keep away, was let down, and rather dramatically at that. She still looked upset, eyes red-rimmed and circled darkly with exhaustion, but she watched him with quiet sorrow and not anger. When her eyes met his, she managed a weak smile, even as she flinched away a little, seeming reluctant to hold his gaze- but he didn't let himself look away. After a moment, however, she did, averting her eyes to fiddle with her hands in her lip, fingers shaking.

"Maes woke up," she said at last, lower lip trembling.

The sudden swell of heartwrenching anxiety was swiftly silenced. He'd lost the right to ask how he was, and he'd especially lost the right to ask her.

"He... asked about you." Gracia left her eyes fixed on her knees, her voice even smaller than before as she fiddled with her skirt. "He's worried about you."

When the moment of surprise had faded, Roy lowered his gaze as well, swallowing. Of course he was. That was what Maes did. He worried, even when he shouldn't. It meant nothing. When he was better, when he understood more, what he and his family had been through, it'd be different...

Gracia wiped at her eyes again, but the gesture hardly made her look even an ounce more put together than before. "...Roy, When Major Hawkeye spoke to me, before..." she began abruptly, clearing her throat, voice soft, strangled, "I was... upset. I wasn't thinking. I just... reacted in the moment, without realizing... I was upset and, I said some things to you. ...I'm sorry, Roy."

...Oh, no.

Absolutely not.

First it was his team, telling him not to apologize- and now, Gracia, actually apologizing to him?

No.

Roy looked to her miserably, imploringly, ignoring the desperate way those words still rang in his ears and felt like a kick to the chest. He shook his head, trying to tell her without words not to do this- but, as always, his struggle failed.

"Roy," she told him, leaning forward and meeting his eyes, and the suffering he found there was so deep there he almost could not stand it. "I'm your friend, too, okay? I know how much you love Maes, and I know that... that you'd never have done this to him. Not on purpose." She looked at him sadly again, her tears trickling down her cheeks and lip trembling, and it took her a moment to find her voice again past the grief. "I still don't really understand how it happened, but I... I..."

"Gracia," he started, frantically returning his attention to the dictionary in his lap. "Gracia-" He had to explain it to her. He had to tell her why. _I didn't know- I was scared- I thought it was Azarov- I didn't know- if I could take it back I would, I swear- oh god I'm so sorry-_

"Roy. Roy, you don't have to." She was crying again, trying to stop him, but he pulled away and searched desperately for the words. He had to tell her! There was no excuse, there were no words, but he couldn't leave it in silence any longer- not to her. She deserved the truth.

"Gracia-"

"Roy, it's okay." Her hand closed over the book, gently easing it shut and away from him. With a strangled sort of cry he tried to yank it back- then froze, at the abject anguish on her tear stained face. "I... do deserve an explanation. Yes." But then she shook her head, still holding the book out of his reach. "But I can wait until you're ready to give it."

No- no, she _couldn't_ do this! She couldn't be looking at him like this, like she sympathized, like she was sorry, like she understood- she couldn't deny him this, not let him explain- "Prosti- Maes, ya he znat'- prosti-"

"You don't have to do this, Roy." Suddenly she was crying again, hand shaking as it lifted to her mouth, holding back a small cry. "Please. I know it wasn't on purpose and for now, that's enough. I know Maes wouldn't want you to force yourself, so please... please just- don't." She sniffed again, then turned away as her voice broke, covering her eyes and trying not to break down completely. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this... I'm so sorry, Roy." She wiped her eyes with a shaking hand again and bowed her head, small frame quaking under the weight of crushing sorrow.

After several moments, when she'd somehow regained some semblance of composure, she continued on.

"Roy." She cleared her throat and wiped at her eyes again, voice thick with unshed tears. "I'm sorry. I just came here to say that you could- well, if you wanted to see Maes, still, that is... he would like that, Roy. ...And so would I."

His heart jolted painfully in his chest.

"Maes...?"

Gracia nodded weakly again, not needing to say anything, and his heart leapt.

_Maes..._

For a breath, he was entirely overwhelmed, limp with relief and sudden nervous energy. He looked down at himself, flushing; the idea of his friend seeing what he'd done to himself was nearly intolerable- but his desire to see him was even stronger. Maes... even if he'd hate him now, even if their friendship was dead and gone, if he could just see him once; know he was okay...

"Just, ah- can I ask you a small favor, Roy?"

He jumped, looking shakily back at her and taking in a weak breath. After a moment, he managed to make himself nod, trying to push back his own desperate sort of relief for another time, Gracia far more deserving of his attention. Small favor? Small favor... after what he'd done to her husband, there was nearly nothing she could ask of him that he had any right to refuse.

Gracia nodded back, rubbing her eyes again before looking away, suddenly slumped with a sense of regret or guilt. "Like I said, if you want to see Maes, please, feel free. I really do think he'd like it. But, if I'm there with Elicia... could you wait?"

This time, it took him several seconds to nod, the frantic relief and anguished guilt still twisting his stomach receding a bit in the face of uncertainty.

Obviously understanding his confusion, Gracia cleared her throat and started to explain, her voice a little stronger now. "Elicia's not quite ready to see you yet. When she found out what happened, she was... upset..." Her eyes suddenly overspilled again, fingers shaking as they twisted in her lap. "It's not what you think- I- it's complicated, Roy... Maes always told Elicia he didn't want her to be an alchemist; it's so dangerous- but he said that if she really, really wanted to, then he wanted her to be like you. You know how dangerous your alchemy is and you've always made sure to have perfect control over it because of it. So she can't understand how you could've just hit Maes on accident." She shifted uncomfortably again, clearly having trouble with the idea herself. "I've told her it wasn't on purpose but... she just needs a little time. I'm sorry, Roy."

His heart clenched again.

After several miserable moments, he withered back, unable to meet her eyes as he drew his arm around himself tighter, trying to push back the almost tangible rise of guilt. Of course she was upset... he'd be rather stunned if she hadn't been. And Gracia was right, after all. The first thing Master Hawkeye had ever taught him was self control. Alchemy was a last resort, and only to be used when he could be absolutely positive the only person at risk was himself or the enemy. If someone else was in his line of fire, find another way.

And like a coward, in the one moment where it had really mattered, he'd given up everything he'd ever learned, and burned the only person who he hadn't already hurt

_...I'm so sorry..._

Gracia let out another miserable sigh, patting his arm as she stood up, turning towards the door. "She'll come around, Roy, I promise. Just give her some time, okay?" She wiped at her wet face one final time, clearing her throat as she straightened upright. "But, it's late now. I'm going to go get Elicia and go back to our hotel. I... I'll see you tomorrow, hopefully?" She offered him a small, watery sort of a smile and moved a step back, about to leave.

Gasping, suddenly struck with realization, Roy grabbed for her wrist, even as he hated himself for asking anything more of her now than she'd already given- but he was too desperate to care. "Riza?"

Gracia stiffened abruptly. She looked down at his hand then back over her shoulder, to where he knew she had to be waiting, just standing right out there in the hall. "I'm not sure she's ready to see you yet, Roy."

His heart fell, hand slipping limply off of hers as any pathetic hopes he'd had crashed, just like that. ...Oh.

Unable to help himself, he leaned a little past her, straining to try and see enough into the hallway to catch just a glimpse of her. He couldn't, and his stomach twisted again.

"Roy," Gracia started sadly, turning back to him again. "She'll come around when she's ready. She's still angry with you- but she's even more upset with herself. You really hurt her, Roy."

He sank back even further, swallowing the lump in his throat with the added burden of guilt and misery.

"She _will_ come around, though, Roy. I don't think she's moved from outside your room in two days. ...She still loves you, you know, and nothing you do could change that."

The words made him stiffen, eyes widening in alarm as he jerked back around to look at her. He worked his mouth uselessly, trying to question her- then stopped, when she just gave him a watery smile, shaking her head in a near laugh.

"You two haven't been fooling anyone, least of all my husband, Roy. Maes has been telling me for almost a decade to expect a spring wedding." She smiled weakly at him again. "You did hurt her, and you _need_ to talk to her, Roy- she deserves that- but she will forgive you. Whether you think you deserve it or not."

And for the first time in days, Roy knew something like hope.

* * *

It was quiet, and dark.

The familiar sounds of a hospital room, beeping and hissing and dripping, were the only things he could hear, oppressive in the stifling room, and it reminded him more effectively than anything else of his pitiful condition. He caught the reflexive gasp of pain before it could escape, breath hitching as with the first tendrils of consciousness came agony.

And oh, it was extravagant. It was far beyond anything he'd ever felt before, but Gracia and Elicia were there. He couldn't show it. So he breathed through clenched teeth, rolling his head back and forth through a miserable spasm, but kept his mouth tightly shut and his eyes squeezed closed, trying to control himself.

When he could at last risk expanding his focus beyond keeping calm, Maes opened his eyes.

It was dark, and he blinked several times, struggling to clear his vision. When at last the dim ceiling of the hospital room came into focus, he sighed a little, shutting his eyes for a moment. It was night... Gracia would probably be gone, sleeping. If she wasn't there, he should probably try to go back to sleep himself; get away from the pain while he still could...

But then, he frowned.

He wasn't alone.

Maes wasn't sure how he knew, but many years spent as a soldier had taught him to trust his instincts. He knew, somehow, that he wasn't alone, so, painfully wrenching his eyes open again, he took another ragged breath, flinching again, and turned his head to the side to look.

It was Roy.

Maes stopped for a moment, stinging relief coursing through him just underneath the oppressive pain. He was okay... Gracia hadn't told him before, looking away from him and just telling him not to worry- which of course, had only made him worry more. But he was all right. Somewhat... he still looked tired, Maes observed worriedly, head down and mussed hair shadowing his eyes, a blanket around his shoulders hiding most of him from view, and still injured, too, one arm in a cast and a few faded bruises visible- but he was okay.

He took in another breath, aiming to say his name, get his attention. He needed to talk to Roy; get it through his thick skull this was not his fault. He knew his friend; he'd be blaming himself for this, and needed a good knock around the head to convince him otherwise. All that came out was a pained croak. But it did the job, when his friend jerked, head lifting and dark, hollowed eyes immediately jumping to find his own. "M-Maes!" he gasped, face contorting, and he was on his feet an instant, eyes lit with anguish and relief. "Maes-" He bit his lip, frustrated and stuck, then leaned forward desperately, one hand curling shakily around the bedrail. " _Ty v poryadke?"_

Maes frowned weakly, brow furrowing. It took him several moments to find the words through the fog in his mind, and when he did, he was even more confused. _Are you okay?_ "...mmm..." He managed, an affirmative sort of mumble. He vaguely remembered Gracia saying something about him being unable to talk, but was just too tired to sort it out now... "Roy..."

Roy swallowed, eyes dark and suddenly filled with so much frantic emotion it was nearly overwhelming. "M... Maes," he started weakly, voice thick, but then his breath caught and he couldn't go on. His friend just stared at him for several seconds, apology and guilt so heavy on the air it was almost palpable- and then, with a single minded, passionate, broken sort of intensity, Roy opened the book in his arms and carefully set it down just into his line of sight.

Without his glasses, never mind the exhausted pain that swept through him from head to toe, it took Maes a few seconds to be able to figure out the thing was a Drachman dictionary. It took him even longer to focus and see that Roy was pointing towards one of the words on the page, an entry he'd circled. Frowning, Maes let his gaze wonder back up to his friend in confusion, but he didn't quite have the strength to say a word, and Roy, for his part, looked too emotional to speak.

Drained and unsure, Maes let his head fall to the side again, looking blearily at Roy's book. The general waited, watching him until he could see that he could read it again, then, in a well practiced motion, as if he'd been waiting for this moment for a while, began to spell out his message through the book.

_Sorry_

_I_

_Hurt_

_You._

_Sorry._

A muted, muffled sort of cry came from Roy's throat, and the finger pointed desperately at the last word again. This last word, _sorry,_ looked as if it had been circled passionately many times, the black pen drawn so deeply it had nearly ripped the page. Slowly, he dragged his gaze up again to his friend. An anguished stare met his, black eyes wide and tortured, desperate for understanding- and as he watched, Roy stabbed at the word with his finger, over and over again.

_Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry._

And Maes, looking at his desperate, shaking, hurting best friend, and listening to him apologizing, over and over again, knew there was only one thing he could do.

"Proschat," he whispered hoarsely, holding Roy's gaze.

Roy hesitated, slowing even as he tried to apologize again. He shook his head slightly, confused, unsure, broken eyes watching him.

Maes managed a weak, fond eye roll. _Don't talk to me in Drachman if I can't talk back to you in it, moron,_ but he didn't have the strength to say any more. Rather, he just made a weak gesture with his finger, telling Roy to give him the dictionary.

After a few uncertain moments, he did.

He clumsily fingered through the pages, barely able to read them and unable to feel them through numb fingertips. Roy helped him search for it, but even though his haze he could feel the miserable, tortured gaze of his best friend resting on him, and that only emboldened him to move faster, struggling to find the word before the drugs swept him under again.

When he finally found it, he let his hand fall slack, pointing shakily with the last of his strength, and looked up at Roy again.

A shaky, keening sort of gasp left his friend, his eyes widening as he read the word. His face contorted in disbelief and pain, and his dark gaze flickered from the book to stare at him, as if asking him if he really meant it.

Maes rolled his head in an exhausted nod.

Roy stumbled back a step, hand rising to his mouth and eyes squeezing shut, gasping again as if that one word had been a knee to the gut. He was shaking again, entirely overwhelmed and shattering under the weight of it. For a moment, Maes almost thought he was going to collapse.

His gaze wondered back to the dictionary again, looking over the one word that had nearly broken him.

_Proschat: forgive._

It took Roy several moments to pull himself back from the edge, after that. His shoulders quaked violently, his face bleached of all color, and his hand was still over his mouth, his friend looking as if he was about to fall or scream. When he at last managed to look down at him again, breaths deep and ragged, his silent eyes had filled with tears. But a deep sort of change had come over him, not radiating anguish or disbelief from his still pained eyes anymore, and Maes could see that whether or not his friend believed he deserved it, he'd accepted it.

"Maes," he choked out.

Then, with another desperate breath, he tried to speak.

"T... th... t-t- _th... th..."_

A mournful, frustrated whimper issued from him, his best friend slumping and trembling, face contorting again. A single tear finally escaped, trailing miserably down the side of his face. "Th... _th..."_ he gasped, voice rising with the struggle, "th...

"...thank you."

Maes' eyes closed before he could reply.

But he was fine with that, because he'd said all he'd needed to say- and Roy had heard it.

He was almost asleep again, far too along to do anything in terms of a reaction, when he heard footsteps, not Roy leaving but someone else coming to join him. He heard Roy breathe in shakily again, his breath hitching, but a few moments, no one spoke.

At last, his best friend's voice hoarse, drained, and hurt, he heard a whisper. "Prosti."

There was a brief pause. Then, the very faint sound of a sad, feminine sigh. Not Gracia... Riza. "I'm sorry, too, Roy. But I think we've both done enough apologizing."

"Mmm..." his friend mumbled, and he could've sworn he heard a kiss. "...Riza?"

"Yes?"

"...If y-you... still want t-to know... what happened, in Dr-Drachma... I'll t-tell you now, Riza."

Just before he slipped away into sleep entirely, Maes could've sworn he saw her smile.


End file.
